TH6  •  SPHINX 


1N-AUBRGY 


PARISH* 


Pictures  of  American  Life  and  Character 
Past  and  Present 


THE    SPHINX    IN    AUBREY    PARISH. 


i. 

SAMUEL   SEW  ALL,  AND    THE    WORLD 
HE  LIVED  IN. 

ILLUSTRATED. 

A  book  not  without  uses  for  the  learned  in  American  hist- 
ory. It  certainly  will  inspire  the  ingenuous  youth  of  our  land 
to  study  and  understand  the  mixed,  singular,  and  solemn  story 
of  how,  out  of  the  zeal,  religion,  and  shrewd  common  sense  of 
a  few  immigrants,  a  great  and  free  nation  was  born.  [/« press. 

II. 

THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A    NEW 
ENGLAND  FARM  HOUSE. 

A    ROMANCH    OF    THE    OLD    COLONY. 

Third  edition.     Illustrated,  i2tno,  380  pages.     $1.50. 

A  book  that  will  take  its  place,  on  the  shelves  of  the  library, 
by  the  side  of  "  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield."  Born  and  bred  on 
Cape  Cod,  the  author,  at  the  winter  firesides  of  country  people 
very  conservative  of  old  English  customs  now  gone,  heard  cu- 
rious talk  of  kings,  Puritan  ministers,  the  war  and  precedent 
struggle  of  our  Revolution,  and  touched  a  race  of  men  and 
women  now  passed  away.  He  also  heard,  chiefly  from  ancient 
women,  the  traditions  of  ghosts,  witches,  and  Indians,  as  they 
are  preserved,  and  to  a  degree  believed,  by  honest  Christian 
folk,  in  the  very  teeth  of  modern  progress.  These  things  are 
embodied  in  this  book. 

III. 
THE  SPHINX  IN  AUBREY  PARISH. 

A    NOVEL. 

Illustrated,  lamo,  cloth,  400  pages.     $1.50. 

The  instantaneous  popularity  of  "A  New  England  Farm 
House,"  the  author's  first  venture  in  the  field  of  fiction  (which 
has  been  read  and  re-rea^,  by  all  classes,  with  an  eagerness  lit- 
tle short  of  that  which  hailed  the  appearance  of  "  Scarlet  Letter" 
a  generation  ago),  has  led  the  publishers  to  induce  Mr.  Cham- 
berlain to  consent  to  a  companion  volume.  Wholly  distinct 
from  that  first  book  in  its  plot,  scenery,  and  location,  it  will  be 
found  as  interesting,  and  equally  as  strong  in  its  animation  and 
sustained  energy  of  action. 

***  For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  will  be  sent,  post-paid,  on 
receipt  of  price  by  the  publishers, 

CUPPLES    &    HURD, 
®be  2H0onquin  p«0rf.  BOSTON. 


THE   SPHINX    IN    AUBREY   PARISH. 


THE    SPHINX 


IN 


AUBREY  PARISH 


A   NOVEL 


N.   H.  CHAMBERLAIN 

Author  of"  The  Autobiography  of  a  New  England  Far;>i  House." 


BOSTON 
CUPPLES   AND    KURD 

(3Tbe  2U0onquin  press 
1889 


COPYRIGHT,  1889, 
By  CUPPLES  &  HURD. 


A II  rights  reserved. 


I  DEDICATE  THIS  BOOK  TO  MY  MEMORIES. 

THE  AUTHOR. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  THE  ARCHDEACON          ....        9 
II.  THE  REV.  FREDERIC  ARDENNE      .        .12 

III.  SIR  CHAUNCEY  DE  VERB        ...      26 

IV.  EASTER  IN  THE  CATHEDRAL  ...      38 
V.   Miss  HANNAH 51 

VI.  Two  MEN  AT  CROSS  PURPOSES     .        .      57 

VII.    ST.  JOHN'S G8 

VIII.  STRASBOURG  MINSTER     ....      77 

IX.   AUBKEY  PARISH 86 

X.   HELEN  DE  VERE 95 

XL  MOTHER  WALKER  .                 .        .        .    104 

XII.  A  MOTHER'S  SURPRISE  .        .        .        .112 

XIII.  FOLK  A  PARSON  FINDS  OUT   .        .        .    119 

XIV.  THE  PARTY  AT  RIVER  NOOK         .        .127 
XV.   AFTER  THE  PARTY          ....    158 

XVI.   FIRST  FLOWERS 172 

XVII.  THE  SHADOW  OF  NEMESIS     .        .        .  182 

XVIII.  A  MAIDEN 196 

XIX.  THE  REVIVAL 205 

XX.  THE  OLD  AND  THE  NEW  IN  STRIFE     .  222 
XXI.   A  HOME  FOR  A  HEART  .        .        .        .231 

XXII.   FLOWERS  AGAIN 236 

XXIII.   MOTHER  AND  SON  .  245 


8  Contents. 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXIV.    A  DINNER  OF  HERBS      .        .        .        .253 
XXV.    A  YACHTING  PARTY        .        .        .        .262 

XXVI,  A  NIGHT  AFLOAT 276 

XXVII.   A  MUSICALE  IN  AUBREY         .        .        .     284 
XXVIII.  THE   WEDDING    IN    BLACKBERRY 

HOLLOW 303 

XXIX.   A  LETTER 338 

XXX.   AT  INDIAN  WELL 349 

XXXI.  FLOTSAM  AND  JETSAM     ....    363 
XXXII.   SIR  CHAUNCEY  DE  VERE  AGAIN    .        .     366 

XXXIII.  LIBERTY  AT  LAST    .  .374 

XXXIV.  THE  AGNOSTIC 381 

XXXV.  THE  CHRISTMAS  TIDE     .        .        .         .400 

XXXVI.   WATER  AGAIN 408 

XXXVII.  A  SISTER  OF  MERCY        .        .        .        .415 

XXXVIII.   HOME  AGAIN 426 

XXXIX.   Miss  MARY  KENDRICK    .        .        .        .436 
XL.   AN  INVASION  OF  THE  RECTORY      .        .    447 

XLI.  THE  MARRIAGE 461 

XLII.   EDWARD  VAUGHN — FINALE  .    469 


CHAPTER    I. 

THE  ARCHDEACON. 

THE  Archdeacon  rang  his  bell.  In  due  time  a 
servant  appeared. 

"  Tell  Mr.  Ardenne  I  wish  to  speak  with  him." 

The  servant  bowed  and  retired.  The  Archdea- 
con turned  to  the  papers  on  his  table.  He  shall 
remain  there  until  the  brief  account  which  this 
history  demands  is  given.  Archdeacon  Ardenne 
inhabits  one  of  those  comfortable  recluse  English 
houses,  which  for  a  couple  of  hundred  years  or  so 
have  looked  across  the  Cathedral  Close  at  Ches- 
ter upon  the  venerable  Minster  which  pious  hands 
have  built  over  St.  Werburgh's  shrine.  He  has 
been,  for  some  time  now,  one  of  the  Cathedral 
clergy.  More  than  this,  he  is  a  Cambridge  man, 
and  fifty-six;  an  imposing,  stalwart  Englishman, 
in  clerical  dress,  but  with  a  certain  curt,  decisive, 
military  air,  that  befits  him  as  one  of  a  race  of 
warriors. 

The  long  rows  of  ancient-looking  books  in  white 
parchment  with  Latin  titles,  the  shelves  filled  with 
monotonous  reaches  of  grim  and  heavily  leathered 


10  The  Archdeacon. 

volumes  of  old  divinity,  with  his  exquisite  edition 
of  the  Fathers,  show  the  tone  of  his  exact  and  sturdy 
scholarship.  The  elaborate  bronzes  on  the  mantel 
tell  us  that  he  is  rich.  The  stray  pens,  with  per- 
chance a  vagrant  inkstand  hidden  behind  the  man- 
tel vases,  and  the  piles  of  irregularly  sorted  pamph- 
lets upon  the  heavy  Brussels  carpet,  declare  the 
bachelor.  And  he  writes  at  his  table  by  the  sober 
daylight  entering  between  the  heavy  drapery  of 
the  green  velvet  curtains,  while  his  favorite  terrier 
lies  before  the  right  comfortable  lazy  blaze  of  the 
coal  fire,  asleep. 

A  young  man  stood  beside  the  Archdeacon  at 
his  writing. 

"  You  sent  for  me  just  now,  sir  ?  " 

The  Archdeacon  rose  from  his  chair  and  laid  his 
hand  familiarly  upon  his  shoulder. 

"  Ah  yes,  Fred,  I  tell  you  something.  You  are 
to  inform  the  precentor  before  night  that  on 
Easter  morning  he  is  to  sing,  as  the  anthem,  from 
Handel's  Messiah,  '  I  know  that  my  Redeemer 
liveth.'  You  know  the  music.  Another  thing. 
Downham  is  sick,  and  Lloyd  has  gone  down  to  see 
his  father  who  is  dying.  Robson  declines  for  rea- 
sons. You  are  to  preach  the  Easter  sermon. 

"  I,  Uncle  ?     You  are  quizzing  me." 

"Not  at  all.  Listen.  I  have  spoken  to  the 
Bishop,  and  he  has  seen  fit  to  order  it.  You  are 
too  good  a  Churchman  to  rebel  against  authority. 


The  Archdeacon.  11 

It  is  settled  that  you  preach.  I  give  you  a  word 
of  advice.  You  know  what  Easter  Sunday  in  the 
Cathedral  is.  It  is  your  opportunity.  I  advise 
you  to  improve  it.  You  have  four  days  for  prep- 
aration. If  you  miss  your  mark,  I  shall  blush  in 
my  stall  for  your  mother's  son." 

The  young  man  seemed  to  meditate  upon  the 
Archdeacon's  proposition,  but  he  finally  answered 
quietly,  "  I  will  preach  then,  Uncle." 

"  I  give  you  another  piece  of  advice,  very  pri- 
vately, Fred.  I  have  never  thought  that  a  lady's 
drawing-room  was  just  the  place  to  court  theology. 
I  suggest  that  this  week  you  eschew  our  neighbor 
Helen  De  Vere." 

The  young  man  blushed  to  his  temples,  but  said 
nothing. 

"  It  may  be  very  pleasant  work,  you  think," 
the  Archdeacon  continued,  "studying  a  little  divin- 
ity —  and  I  confess  Miss  De  Vere  is  one,  —  but  I 
am  going  to  befriend  the  sermon.  Turn  monk 
and  keep  your  cell  till  after  Easter.  Now  go  and 
tell  the  precentor." 

The  young  man  went  without  a  word.  The  Arch- 
deacon returned  to  his  writing,  and  the  terrier  slept 
on  before  the  fire. 


CHAPTER    II. 

THE  REV.    FREDERIC   ARDENNE. 

THE  young  man  told  the  precentor.     He  found 
him  conning  over  some  music  in  the  choir  room. 

"Ah  yes,  "  said  the  old  man;  "  I  have  been  ex- 
pecting that  message,  and  everything  is  ready. 
The  Archdeacon  has  had  that  music  every  Easter 
for  ten  years  now.  Good  as  it  is,  I  wonder  he 
never  changes  it.  I  suggested  it  once,  but  he  ended 
the  matter  by  saying :  '  Bentley,  I  hope  we  are  to 
have  that  music  as  men  have  their  wives,  as  long 
as  we  both  shall  live.'  "  There  was  one  little  thing 
that  the  precentor  did  not  know  about  the  brief 
gray  man  who  ordered  it.  One  Easter  Sunday, 
years  ago,  the  Archdeacon  had  heard  that  anthem 
with  a  young  girl  sitting  beside  him  in  the  pew 
—  for  that  day  only  —  who  before  another  Easter 
had  white  flowers  laid  around  her  face  ;  and  ever 
since,  at  the  great  feast  of  immortality,  he  had 
somehow  heard  in  that  music  the  tones  of  her 
voice,  and  felt  the  sunshine  of  a  presence  which 
no  grave  could  hide.  The  precentor  went  on  with 
his  work.  It  may  be  as  well  to  take  a  look  at  the 
young  man  who  brought  the  message. 


The  Rev.  Frederic  Ardenne.  13 

Frederic  Ardenne  is  a  man  hard  upon  thirty 
years  old,  of  a  Cheshire  family  whose  men  for  gen- 
erations had  served  their  king  as  soldiers,  under 
diverse  skies,  with  that  loyalty  which  an  English 
soldier  shows.  He  himself  had  been  bred  for  the 
Church.  His  father,  whom  he  had  never  known, 
died  at  Salamanca,  when,  at  sunset,  the  Saxon 
shouts  that  rang  through  those  Spanish  vineyards, 
reddened  and  trampled  under  the  angry  feet  of 
stalwart  foemen,  told  of  the  great  victory  won; 
and  they  found  the  sword  in  the  cold  hand  of  Col. 
Ardenne  as  he  lay  among  his  men  under  the  pure 
stars  which  looked  down  on  the  dead  heroes.  The 
son  from  childhood  bore  in  his  heart  the  proud 
memories  of  such  a  sire,  and  had  read  with  tears 
the  words  that  men  had  placed  in  the  nave  of  the 
cathedral  as  epitaph  :  — 

HIS  RACE  WAS  ONE  OF  SOLDIERS  ; 

AMONG    SOLDIERS    HE    LIVED AMONG  THEM    HE  DIED  ', 

A  SOLDIER  FALLING  WHERE  NUMBERS    FELL    WITH  HIM, 

IN  A  FOREIGN  LAND. 

YET  THERE  DIED  NONE  MORE  GENEROUS, 
MORE  DARING,  MORE  GIFTED,  MORE  RELIGIOUS. 

ON  HIS  EARLY  GRAVE 

FELL  THE  TEARS  OF  STERN  AND  HARDY  MEN, 
AS  HIS  HAD  FALLEN  ON  THE  GRAVE  OF  OTHERS. 

His  mother  died  with  the  sword  stroke  that  slew 
her  husband.  The  orphan  became  as  the  Archdea- 
con's son.  From  the  day  when  he  had  been  brought 


14  The  Rev.  Frederic  Ardenne. 

by  his  nurse  to  the  latter's  study,  a  chubby  infant 
in  white  dress  with  blue  ribbons,  till  the  time  when 
he  came  back  from  the  University  a  prizeman 
and  a  deacon,  with  the  promise  of  a  brilliant 
future,  his  uncle  had  provided  in  all  his  affairs 
with  a  right  fatherly  solicitude.  He  seemed  to  be 
impressed  with  the  thought  that,  somehow,  his  own 
life  was  to  perpetuate  itself  in  his  nephew,  and 
looked  to  him  to  be  rescued  from  his  years,  and  his 
name  from  the  grave  that  lay  at  the  end  of  them. 
Besides,  in  certain  subtle  ways  he  was  rekindling 
youth  in  his  own  heart,  from  the  fresh,  ingenuous 
ways  of  the  young  man  whom  he  overwatched. 
They  were,  therefore,  by  an  organic  necessity,  fast 
friends. 

At  the  time  when  our  story  begins,  the  young 
man  was  a  priest  in  orders,  who,  without  holding 
any  fixed  appointment  among  the  Cathedral  clergy, 
had,  through  the  kindness  of  his  uncle,  been  en- 
trusted with  several  minor  affairs  in  its  service, 
which,  while  they  gave  him  insight  into  his  future 
work,  might  in  time  answer  as  stepping-stones  to 
something  better.  His  scholarship  grew  among 
the  Archdeacon's  books,  and  under  the  Cathedral 
shadows  those  churchly  thoughts  deepened  in  his 
heart,  which,  when  set  at  the  centre  of  one's  life, 
make  it  buoyant  with  a  great  hope.  Otherwise, 
he  is  a  middle-sized,  gentlemanly  Saxon,  with 
brown  hair  and  eyes,  a  gentle,  retiring  manner, 


The  Rev.  Frederic  Ardenne.  15 

veiling  a  reserved  strength  and  earnestness  which 
are  the  sufficient  promise  of  his  future. 

The  Archdeacon  had  given  his  nephew  his  order 
and  his  advice.  The  order  was  obeyed.  Ten  min- 
utes after  lie  left  the  precentor,  however,  his  feet 
were  on  the  steps  of  that  same  Helen  De  Vere's 
house,  against  whose  fascinations,  for  this  week 
at  least,  the  Archdeacon  had  so  affectionately 
warned  him. 

"  I  wish  to  see  Miss  Helen,"  he  said  to  the  ser- 
vant who  ushered  him  into  the  hall. 

"  Miss  De  Vere  is  out,  but  left  word  she  would 
be  back  in  half  an  hour." 

"  Very  well,  then,  I  will  wait ;  "  and  he  went  into 
the  library. 

It  must  be  evident  by  this  time  to  the  most  stolid 
reader  that  they  two  are  lovers.  And  yet  that  one 
short  phrase,  "  I  love  you,"  which,  when  spoken  out 
of  a  heart,  makes  so  often  another's  rich  with  a 
great  peace  and  joy,  so  that  this  world  rises  forever 
after  with  a  new  light  and  benediction  on  it,  and 
sometimes  are  those  final  words  which  put  as  it 
were  a  vast  and  silent  sea  between  two  lives  for 
that  one  instant  so  close  together,  had  never  been 
spoken  between  them. 

It  was  one  time  when  the  young  man  had  come 
home  in  the  first  flush  of  his  Rugby  school-days,  to 
spend  Christmas,  that  they  met.  A  little  merry 
child,  with  a  round  face  ruddy  with  the  Christmas 


16  The  Rev.  Frederic  Ardenne. 

frost,  driving  hoop  on  the  walk  of  the  Cathedral 
Close,  had  quite  without  intent  driven  herself  and 
hoop  bolt  into  the  arms  of  the  circumspect  and 
stately  youth  who  happened  to  be  out  that  morn, 
ing,  in  Rugby  costume,  upon  his  travels. 

"  Whose  child  are  you  ?  "  said  the  youth,  as  he 
righted  to  their  true  equilibrium  both  the  hoop 
and  its  blushing  owner. 

"  I  am  Helen  De  Vere,  and  I  live  in  the  great 
house  yonder." 

Such  had  been  their  introduction.  Their  fami- 
lies were  friends  and  neighbors.  Hers  consisted  of 
a  maiden  aunt,  Miss  Hannah  De  Vere,  a  rather 
stately  lady,  who  always  reminded  the  child  of  the 
good  queens  she  had  read  about  in  the  story  books, 
and  who,  truth  to  say,  busied  herself  in  no  other 
task  than  that  of  a  most  painful  and  conscientious 
care  of  the  child's  wants  and  wishes  ;  and  her  uncle 
and  guardian,  Sir  Chauncey  De  Vere,  an  absentee 
for  the  most  part  in  the  Parisian  cafes,  of  whom  we 
shall  hear  more  anon.  It  very  naturally  happened 
that  the  young  people  became  friends.  When  Fred- 
eric came  from  school  or  college,  and  it  was  dull  at 
the  Archdeacon's,  he  came  to  learn  somehow  that 
there  was  sunshine  at  the  De  Vere's.  Helen  grew 
to  regard  him  as  a  very  elegant,  tall  man,  who  told 
her  famous  stories  of  things  in  the  great  world  or 
read  her  fairy  tales  or  the  stories  of  King  Arthur's 
Table.  If  she  had  been  asked  what  love  was,  she 


The  Rev.  Frederic  Ardenne.  17 

could  have  answered  no  more  wisely  than  if  she 
had  been  questioned  as  to  what  the  aether  was  ;  and 
yet  somehow  deep  down  in  the  child's  heart  an  un- 
recognized sentiment  some  day  had  planted  itself 
as  silently  as  the  flowers  grow  in  the  spring  earth. 
Frederic  thought  of  her  as  a  sunny-hearted  child, 
very  pleasant  to  listen  to  and  to  be  happy  with, 
as  grown  boys  are  happy  with  open-hearted, 
merry  girls.  It  had  gone  on  so  for  years.  And 
as  it  happens  every  year  that  the  spring  germs 
unfold  themselves  under  June  skies  into  summer 
flowers,  so  it  came  to  pass  that  half  unconsciously 
to  both  the  lilies  of  a  first  love  sprang  up  and 
opened  their  blossoms  without  a  sound.  If  Helen 
asked  herself  why  she  counted  the  weeks  to  Fred- 
eric's vacation  so  sedulously,  she  never  favored 
herself  with  the  plain  answer.  If  Frederic  ever  in- 
quired why  the  long  Christmas  evenings  seemed  so 
short,  and  the  coal  fire  so  ruddy,  and  the  very  night 
so  bright  at  the  De  Vere's  when  the  rain  and  the 
snow  were  outside,  and  lie  sat  and  chatted  with  the 
young  girl  about  his  college  or  their  friends,  while 
Miss  Hannah  looked  up  from  her  worsted  now  and 
then  at  the  two  children  with  no  more  dread  com- 
mand to  Helen  than  to  be  careful  about  tiring 
herself  with  too  much  talk,  he  too,  escaped  putting 
before  his  own  heart  the  exact  answer. 

The  truth  came  to  him   at   last  on   this   wise. 
Helen  De  Vere  had  fallen  dangerously  sick  one 


18  The  Rev.  Frederic  Ardenne. 

Easter,  and  the  physicians  consulted  ominously. 
It  drew  a  very  black  cloud  for  him  over  the  Easter 
holidays.  It  muffled  the  Easter  anthems  to  a 
dirge  and  made  the  Easter  festivals  to  mock  his 
fearful  and  heavy  heart.  And  thenceforth  rose 
in  his  soul  the  consciousness  that  he  loved  the 
child,  loved  her  as  he  thought  with  a  love  that 
would  outlast  the  very  skies  over  him  and  her. 
Helen  recovered.  Did  the  favorite  flowers  he  sent 
her  tell  her  ?  Did  the  eager  eyes  and  the  grateful 
words  which  greeted  her  when  for  the  first  time 
she  came  down  stairs  and  lay  on  the  lounge  in  the 
library,  and  Miss  Hannah  stood  sentinel  over  them 
when  Frederic  Ardenne  came  in  with  her  aunt's 
permission?  In  that  hour  when  herself  was  re- 
vealed to  her  she  became  a  woman.  And  yet  one 
word  was  never  spoken,  though  they  from  hence- 
forth knew  each  other.  As  ivy  that  twines  itself 
about  the  oak  is  silent,  so  noiselessly  did  the  ten- 
drils of  Helen's  love  twine  themselves  around  the 
life  of  Frederic  Ardenne. 

With  a  light,  airy,  girlish  step  and  the  rustle  of 
silk  in  the  hall  Helen  De  Vere  entered  the  library. 
Frederic  Ardenne  rose  to  meet  her. 

"  How  did  you  know  I  was  here,  my  child,"  he 
asked. 

"  I  saw  your  hat  in  the  hall  and  I  was  expecting 
you  to-day." 

"Me!  Why?" 


The  Rev.  Frederic  Ardenne.  19 

"  Oh,  because  you  come  here,  you  know,  and  you 
promised  to  read  to  me  this  week.  And  you  have 
been  away  two  days  already." 

"  I  have  been  very  busy  with  the  service,  and  this 
is  the  most  solemn  Passion  Week." 

"  I  know  it,"  she  said,  more  soberly ;  "  arid  yet  I 
have  waited  for  you.  It  is  selfish,  I  know,  but  I 
am  glad  you  have  come.  The  sun  has  not  shone 
this  week  and  it  is  very  lonely  in  the  house.  But 
tell  me  what  you  have  been  doing." 

While  Helen  De  Vere  is  laying  aside  her  shawl 
and  hat  by  the  light  of  the  fire  in  the  grate  we 
will  study  her  a  little.  It  is  a  face  almost  brunette, 
with  regular  features,  and  just  now  aglow  with  the 
fresh  air  of  her  evening  walk,  and  animate  perhaps 
with  Mr.  Ardenne's  presence  ;  the  free,  open,  gener- 
ous, trusting  face  of  young  girlhood.  The  dark 
hazel  eyes,  round,  full,  and  dreamy,  like  deep  foun- 
tains under  the  long  eyelashes,  are  full  of  gentle- 
ness and  pathos,  as  is  the  wont  of  sensitive  woman- 
hood. The  brown  hair  smooth  over  the  white 
forehead,  the  petite,  girlish  figure,  the  exquisitely 
moulded  little  hands,  a  certain  delicacy  and  tremu- 
lousness  of  the  clear-cut  mouth,  joined  to  a  gentle 
and  sensitive  habit  of  hiding  herself  away  as  it 
were  from  strangers  or  aught  that  jars  upon  her 
sensitive  and  modulated  nature,  are  the  sure  signs 
of  the  one  fact  about  her,  that  she  is  born  a 
lady. 


20  The  Rev.  Frederic  Ardenne. 

"As  now  you  have  folded  your  shawl  in  an 
exact  square  and  laid  your  hat  in  the  very  centre, 
according  to  Miss  Hannah's  education,  you  will 
perhaps  talk  to  me  a  little,"  said  Mr.  Ardenne,  after 
he  had  for  some  time  watched  her  exemplary  pa- 
tience in  laying  aside  the  aforesaid  apparel  upon 
the  table. 

"  Indeed,  sir.  That  is  a  new  fashion.  It  is  you 
who  are  to  talk  to  me.  Is  that  so  very  difficult  for 
you?" 

"Not  very  difficult.     What  am  I  to  say?" 

"  Whatever  you  choose.  Nothing  or  anything. 
Why  should  you  ask  me  to  tell  you  ?  " 

"Are  you  a  good  listener?" 

"  Sometimes,  if  the  story  be  good.  But  I  asked 
you  something." 

"What  was  it,  my  child?" 

"  If  you  have  forgot,  I  think  it  was  something 
about  the  Archdeacon's  terrier.  Nothing  very  im- 
portant, I  am  sure." 

"  No,  Helen,  I  have  not  forgot.  I  was  only  try- 
ing your  kind  heart,"  said  the  repentant  man,  as 
he  came  across  the  room  and  seated  himself  by 
Helen's  side,  with  the  certain  air  of  a  man  who 
knows  his  place.  "You  ask  what  I  have  been 
doing.  Well,  then,  I  have  been  arranging  the 
Easter  presents  for  the  choir  boys ;  hearing  them 
rehearse  their  music ;  taught  the  charity  scholars 
about  Passion  Week ;  said  service,  and  been  very 


The  Rev.  Frederic  Ardenne.  21 

busy.  But  why  don't  you  ask  me  what  I  am  going 
to  do?" 

"  What,  sir,  are  you  going  to  do  ?  " 

"  That  is  what  I  came  here  to  tell  you,"  and  he 
leaned  in  his  earnest  way  towards  her.  "  Our 
good  bishop,  since  others  have  failed  him,  has 
commanded  me  to  preach  at  Easter.  Is  not  that 
news  for  you,  that  I,  Frederic  Ardenne,  am  to 
preach  in  the  Cathedral  ?  " 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  it." 

"Why?" 

"For  your  sake,  sir." 

"  Why  for  my  sake?  " 

"  Because,"  and  here  the  young  girl  hesitated,  as 
though  something  forbade  her  to  go  on. 

"  Because  why,  my  child  ?  " 

"Because,  then,  if  it  is  right  for  me  to  say  it, 
I  am  sure  you  will  do  well.  You  have  been  at 
the  University,  you  know,  and  have  the  learning, 
and  it  will  make  you  friends.  You  want  friends, 
don't  you?  Besides,  it  is  so  pleasant  to  have  one's 
friend  preach  in  the  Cathedral  choir, —  one  hopes 
so  much,  is  so  anxious,  is  so  glad  when  he  does 
well,  —  I  can't  say  exactly  why.  It  is  wrong  per- 
haps, but  I  am  ambitious  for  my  friends,  though  I 
have  few  friends,  and  most  of  them  are  women. 
Is  your  sermon  written?" 

"  It  is  you,  then,  who  are  ambitious.  You  should 
be  a  soldier.  Soldiers  are  captains  and  grow  to 


22  The,  Rev.  Frederic  Ardenne. 

emperors.  But  in  the  Church  we  are  only  standard 
bearers  and  soldiers  always  under  one  captain. 
For  such  as  I  am,  my  child,  there  is  only  service," 
the  young  man  said  half  sadly. 

"  And  yet,"  she  went  on,  "  there  are  different 
qualities  of  the  service  you  speak  of.  That  which 
is  done  in  the  Church  should  be  well  done  in  honor 
of  Him  who  is  the  Best.  I  am  sure  I  wish  you 
to  do  the  best.  Is  that  wrong  ?  " 

"  Possibly  not.  You  may  be  sure,  my  child,  I 
shall  do  the  best  I  can  for  my  Master's  sake  and 
your  sake  too." 

"  I  certainly  wish  it.     Is  the  sermon  written  ?  " 

"  Not  one  word.  That  reminds  me.  The  Arch- 
deacon gave  me  strict  in  charge  to  become  a  monk 
and  keep  my  cell  till  it  was  written." 

"  Are  you  sure  it  is  quite  right,  then,  for  you  to 
be  here?  "  the  young  girl  asked  anxiously.  "  What 
if  you  should  fail?  Somehow  I  should  blame 
myself." 

"  And  thereby  sin  against  yourself.  I  shall  not 
fail.  I  came  here  to  see  you  an  hour  and  then  go 
away  to  the  writing.  You  know  I  tell  you  that 
you  afifect  me  like  one  of  Mozart's  anthems." 

"  I  am  not  musical,  sir." 

"  Not  exactly ;  and  yet  the  cause  of  music  in 
others,  my  child." 

"I  can't  teach  my  aunt  music,  sir.  I  have 
tried  it ;  and  she  never  sings  above  the  third  note 


The  Rev.  Frederic  Ardenne.  23 

in  the  scale,  though  she  gets  through  the  service 
tolerably.  But  you  must  go  now  and  write  your 
sermon." 

"  Very  well,  then,  after  Easter  I  shall  see  you 
again." 

"  Yes,  and  read  to  me  the  '  In  Memoriam,'  as 
you  promised.  But  one  thing  I  forgot  to  tell  you: 
Aunt  has  letters  that  Sir  Chauucey  will  be  here  at 
Easter." 

"  Sir  Chauncey  De  Vere !  He  has  been  gone 
these  five  years  and  hates  England.  I  should  have 
as  soon  looked  for  Notre  Dame  crossing  the  channel 
as  he.  What  is  he  coming  for?" 

"I  really  do  not  know.  Business,  Aunty  thinks. 
His  rooms  have  been  prepared  to-day." 

Why  was  it  that  the  mention  of  Sir  Chauncey's 
coming  threw  a  gloom,  as  of  anticipated  evil,  over 
both  Helen  and  the  young  man  beside  her  ?  He 
was  her  uncle  and  certainly  not  his  enemy.  The 
two  men  had  hardly  met,  and  yet  even  her  heart 
foreboded  some,  as  yet,  unshaped  evil.  Was  it  that 
the  good  angel  who  kept  watch  and  ward  over  so 
pure  a  heart,  looking  into  it  and  into  the  great  world 
outside  it,  saw  enemies  arraying  themselves  against 
its  peace,  to  wither  a  mighty  hope  born  in  that 
stainless  life  of  hers  ?  Was  it  the  strong  angel  of 
a  man's  work  and  wrestle,  who  began  to  sound 
through  his  life  the  low  and  muffled  notes  of  a  most 
bitter  sorrow,  and  moved  now  the  heart  of  Frederic 


24  The  Rev.  Frederic  Ardenne. 

Ardenne  with  the  name  of  a  man  almost  unknown 
to  him  ! 

O  Good  Angels,  of  whatever  watch  and  ward, — 
whose  protecting  wings  skyward  are  ever  bright 
in  the  blaze  of  an  unsetting  sun,  but  earthward 
cast  sometimes  the  shadows  of  your  presence  for 
the  warning  of  those  you  shelter, — as  much  as  in 
you  lies,  and  under  the  rule  of  Him  who  is  so 
strong,  cover  away  from  storm  and  night  these  two 
lives  now  given  to  your  charge,  for  His  sake  who 
is  the  Life,  and  suffered  once  for  all ! 

"  So,  then,  Sir  Chauncey  De  Vere  comes  here  at 
Easter,"  the  young  man  said  slowly,  as  if  he  felt 
but  could  not  measure  an  impending  danger. 
"  Well,  at  any  rate,  come  with  me,  my  child,  to  the 
hall  door  as  usual." 

She  followed  him  without  a  word.  He  turned 
to  her  as  he  opened  the  door.  "  Pardon  me  ;  I 
was  tired  when  I  came  here  and  have  been  but 
miserable  company.  And  yet  I  could  not  stay 
away." 

"  I  have  nothing  to  pardan,  sir." 

The  young  man  bent  down,  and  gravely  signed 
with  his  finger  upon  the  willing  and  wonted  fore- 
head the  sign  of  the  cross. 

"Pax  tecum,"  he  said. 

And  a  low  voice  answered  gently,  "Et  cum 
spiritu  tuo." 

Frederic  Ardenne  passed  out  and  into  the  night, 


The  Rev.  Frederic  Ardenne.  25 

and  there  were  no  stars  above  him  for  the  clouds. 
And  the  night  that  was  to  shroud  his  heart  for 
many  weary  years  had  no  stars  for  the  clouds. 
And  yet,  for  him,  for  us,  for  all  who  suffer,  above 
the  clouds  are  the  stars  that  sing  and  shine  for  ever 
and  ever  ! 


CHAPTER    III. 

SIR    CHAUNCEY   DE  VERE. 

SIR  CHAUNCEY  DE  VERB  came  home  on  Good 
Friday  ;  but  Sir  Chauncey  had  denied  Good  Fri- 
day all  his  life.  The  solemn  Sacrifice  it  commem- 
orated had  been,  so  far  he  was  concerned,  in  vain. 
His  career  for  half  a  century  had  mocked  the 
cross  and  refused  the  life  from  it.  His  heart, 
harder  than  Jew,  Turk,  infidel,  or  heretic,  wasted 
to  ashes,  by  a  life  of  elegant  blasphemies  against 
itself  and  God,  no  longer  asked  or  allowed  the 
pure  flame  of  religion  and  love  to  be  rekindled 
by  any  altar  on  any  day.  Truth  to  say,  Sir 
Chauncey,  living  all  his  life  in  a  Christian  realm, 
was  a  profound  heathen,  and  not  a  very  clean  one 
at  that. 

He  had  been  born  to  wealth  and  a  position. 
His  only  ambition  in  life  had  been  to  spend  the 
one  to  degrade  the  other,  and  in  that  career  his 
had  been  a  great  success.  If  there  had  been  in  his 
heart  in  his  younger  days,  as  indeed  there  were, 
any  pure  thoughts  or  manly  wishes,  he  had  delved 
down  and  dug  them  out.  If  either  man,  woman, 
or  church  by  accident  had  written  some  holy 


*SY>*  Chauncey  De    Vere.  27 

legend  on  his  heart,  he  had  erased  it.  His  was  the 
faith  that  kept  the  promise  of  his  own  perdition  ; 
his  the  power  that  wrought  it. 

Sir  Chauncey  was  a  man  of  the  world.  He  had 
its  polish,  its  craft,  its  coldness,  its  balance,  its 
selfishness,  its  remorseless  will,  its  elegant  drapery 
cloaking  foul  things ;  but  he  lacked  that  love  and 
generous  self-denial,  with  a  certain  unclouded  rec- 
titude of  soul,  which  this  world  can  neither  give 
nor  take  away.  He  had  lived  nearly  all  his  life 
in  the  clubs  and  the  cafe's,  and  his  estimate  of 
human  nature  had  been  made  on  no  more  generous 
premises.  His  idea  of  women  was  such  as  fitted 
them  to  be  the  comrades  of  the  men  he  had  met. 
Of  anything  better  in  his  race  he  had  no  concep- 
tion. And  yet  Sir  Chauncey  assumed  the  common 
manners  of  a  gentleman.  He  paid  his  bets  and 
his  servants  scrupulously.  In  his  younger  days 
he  had  been  in  the  army,  and  fought  well  enough, 
under  the  inspiration  of  that  animal  steadiness 
under  mere  physical  danger  which  passes  current 
for  courage  in  so  many  men.  He  was  versed  in 
the  manners  of  the  companies  he  had  kept,  and  had 
long  been  an  authority  in  all  those  questions  of 
mere  worldly  honor  which  men  are  wont  to  decide 
without  honor.  His  portly  visage,  redolent  of 
half  a  century  of  good  cheer,  and  radiant  with 
half  the  vintages  of  Europe,  was  the  diploma  he 
carried  about  with  him  to  the  illustrious  fact 


28  /Sir  Chauncey  De   Vere. 

that  he  had  lived  to  make  himself  a  sewer  for 
meats  and  drinks  for  more  than  a  generation.  He 
had  spent  his  own  and  the  fruits  of  other  men's 
lives  upon  his  pleasures  ;  and  yet  had  never  lifted 
his  hand  to  make  any  richer  or  happier.  He  was 
now  fifty-six ;  and  in  all  those  years  he  had  not 
learned  anything  which  good  men  care  to  know, 
but  had  known  many  things  which  all  wise  men 
make  haste  to  forget. 

Sir  Chauncey  was  welcomed  home  in  due  form 
to  his  house  in  the  Cathedral  Close.  His  affection- 
ate greetings  of  his  kinsfolk  may  be  imagined.  As 
for  the  servants,  there  was  less  laughter  below 
stairs  than  usual.  Their  master  never  kept  Lent, 
but  somehow  Lent  was  always  more  strictly  kept 
when  he  was  home.  The  first  thing  he  did  after 
he  had  seen  his  trunks  in  their  places  was  to  visit 
the  stables ;  next  to  order  minutely  a  very  unlen- 
ten  dinner  ;  then  he  devoted  himself  to  his  friends. 

So  the  De  Veres"  kept  Lent.  Miss  Hannah  De 
Vere,  his  sister,  from  whom  he  had  lived  apart 
nearly  all  his  life,  regarded  Sir  Chauncey  with  a 
very  profound  apprehension.  How  far  her  fear  was 
kin  to  her  dislike,  it  is  not  necessary  here  to  say. 
Helen  showed  her  sense  of  her  uncle  by  a  silence 
that  but  thinly  disguised  her  fear  of  him.  She 
shrunk  away  as  Beauty  might  hide  from  the  Beast. 
Sir  Chauncey  was  not  exacting  of  affection.  He 
made  himself  comfortable  in  his  inn. 


Sir  Chauncey  De    Vere.  29 

It  is  not  in  point  to  speak  of  all  the  little  mat- 
ters which  perplexed  folks  above  and  below  stairs 
on  his  return.  It  is  only  as  he  affects  the  destiny 
of  the  young  people  whom  we  have  met  together 
that  he  or  his  is  of  importance  to  any  one.  What 
came  to  those  two  came  thus.  Sir  Chauncey  had 
two  mental  habits :  the  habit  of  a  tyrant,  as  all 
men  without  conscience  have,  and  the  habit  of  a 
marplot  in  all  matters  that  were  likely  to  make 
folks  happy,  such  as  only  men  like  him  are  not 
ashamed  to  have.  Helen  De  Vere's  happiness  fur- 
nished a  new  field  for  his  genius,  as  in  old  times 
they  say  the  saints  provoked  the  chatter  and  gibes 
of  envious  demons.  He  had  come  home  to  look 
after  her  a  little.  Somehow  an  instinct  from  some 
quarter  of  his  unclean  soul  advised  him  to  take  a 
journey  back  to  England  to  look  after  his  broth- 
er's child.  She  might  be  too  happy.  Sir  Chaun- 
cey, better  than  he  knew,  was  to  reduce  her  back 
to  the  vale  of  tears.  His  angel  (there  are  two 
sorts,  we  know)  laid  in  his  honest  way  Helen's 
Prayer  Book.  In  it  was  writ  her  name,  and 
"  from  her  friend,  Frederic  Ardenne."  Sir  Chaun- 
cey hunted  the  trail,  as  he  had  hunted  foxes,  vigo- 
rously ;  and  had  not  long  to  wait  for  the  "  Halloo." 
He  called  the  butler. 

"  Who  is  Frederic  Ardenne,  John  ?  " 
"  A  young    clergyman,   living    with   the  Arch- 
deacon —  his  nephew,  I  think,  sir." 


30  Sir  Chauncey  De   Vere. 

"Does  he  often  come  here  ?  " 

"  Sometimes." 

"  Was  he  here  this  week  ?  " 

"  I  think  he  was." 

"  Don't  you  know  he  was  ?  And  hasn't  he  been 
here  every  week  and  several  times  a  week  for  a 
twelvemonth?  Come  now.  People  who  eat  my 
bread  must  out  with  the  truth.  How  often  does 
he  come  here  ?  " 

"  I  can't  exactly  say,  but  he  is  often  here,  sir." 

"  That  will  do.  You  may  go  down."  And  the 
butler  went  down. 

"  Sir  Chauncey  is  after  somebody  this  time,"  he 
said  to  his  friends  down  stairs ;  "  I  hope  no  harm 
will  come  to  Miss  Helen." 

Then  Sir  Chauncey  sent  for  his  sister. 

"  What  does  all  this  mean?"  he  said,  when,  some- 
what flustered  at  his  mode  of  summoning  her,  she 
made  her  appearance. 

"What  mean,  brother?" 

"What?  why  all  this  nonsense  about  Helen." 

Miss  Hannah  knew  at  once  from  what  quarter 
the  wind  blew,  and  wisely  said  nothing. 

"Don't  you  intend  to  answer?" 

"  Certainly,  when  I  know  about  what  I  am  to 
answer." 

"  Well,  then,  I  come  home  and  I  find  this  child, 
your  niece,  with  a  follower,  a  young  parson  and 
poor  at  that,  and  you  allow  it.  I  left  her  with  you 


Sir  Chauncey  De    Vere.  31 

to  look  after.  And  here  you  are  with  an  engage- 
ment on  your  hands,  for  aught  I  know.  When  is 
the  wedding?  Or  perhaps  you  don't  fancy  making 
me  your  confidant?  Eh?"  And  he  laughed  a 
laugh  out  of  his  throat,  such  as  men  like  him 
laugh  when  they  are  not  particularly  happy. 

Miss  Hannah  weighed  her  words  before  she 
spoke.  "  If  you  mean  Mr.  Ardenne,  he  is  our 
neighbor  and  our  friend,  and  he  comes  here.  He 
is  a  very  pleasant  young  person  and  Helen  and  he 
read  together  sometimes.  His  family  are  very 
respectable,  you  know,  and  he  visits  people  in  the 
Close,  and  is  a  clergyman.  I  don't  see  anything 
wrong  in  his  coming.  There  is  certainly  no  en- 
gagement, and  I  don't  know  that  anything  has 
ever  passed  between  them  more  than  between 
young  people  generally." 

"That  is  the  way  with  all  you  women.  You 
are  all  softs ;  when  you  have  an  affair  on  hand,  espe- 
cially if  there  is  a  parson  in  the  basket.  This  thing 
must  stop.  If  you  can't  take  care  of  your  niece, 
I  will.  Remember,  this  young  parson  is  to  stay 
away.  You  understand,  Helen  is  not  at  home  to 
him.  You  may  go  now." 

Miss  Hannah  did  understand,  and  she  went,  and 
as  she  went  she  meditated  why  it  was  that  God 
allowed  such  a  man  as  her  brother  (for  she  knew 
him  with  a  knowledge  that  was  very  bitter)  the 
power  to  meddle  with  such  a  poor,  innocent  child 


32  Sir  Chauncey  De    Vere. 

as  her  orphan  niece.  She  might  as  well  have 
asked  why  God  allows  the  plague  or  the  cholera. 

Sir  Chauncey  was  hunting  famously.  He  would 
drive  the  game  to  cover.  His  temper  was  grown 
to  be  fit  for  any  achievement  to  which  men  of  his 
metal  could  possibly  aspire.  He  sent  for  Helen, 
and  she  came  with  an  ill-defined  sense  of  fear,  and 
yet  steadily,  to  confront  her  uncle. 

"  Do  you  love  this  parson,  Frederic  Ardenne,  who 
has  written  such  a  sweet  dedication  in  your  prayer 
book?"  he  said  bluntly,  as  Helen  came  in  and 
stood  before  him,  as,  huge  and  luminous  with  the 
vintages,  now  roused  to  his  full  level  of  malice, 
he  stood  before  the  mantel. 

"  I,  Uncle  ?  "  and  her  face  grew  very  pale,  as  the 
blood  rushed  back  to  her  heart  on  which  so  coarse 
a  blow  had  been  so  foully  struck;  "  I,  how  can  you 
speak  to  me  so  ?  " 

"  Because  I  wish  to  know.  Do  you  love  him  ? 
Out  with  it  at  once." 

But  Helen  made  no  answer.  He  had  stunned 
her. 

"  Do  you  hear  ?     Do  you  intend  to  answer  ?  " 

"  How  shall  I  answer  ?  How  can  you  ask  me,  a 
young  girl,  such  a  question?  I  have  no  father, 
and  you  would  not  question  your  daughter  in  this 
way,  Uncle." 

"  Thank  God,  I  have  no  daughter.  If  I  had,  I 
would  put  her  under  lock  to  keep  her  from  making 


Sir   Chauncey  De    Fere.  33 

a  fool  of  herself,  falling  in  love  with  an  idiot  like 
herself.  Do  you  love  him?" 

"  Indeed,  I  do  not  know." 

Sir  Chauncey's  words  had  so  paralyzed  her 
woman's  nature,  that,  for  the  moment,  she  knew 
and  saw  nothing  but  the  man  by  the  mantel  who 
was  torturing  her. 

"That  is  all  very  well.  I  dare  say  you  would 
know  well  enough  if  the  man  himself  were  to  ask 
you.  Has  he  ever  asked  you?"  and  he  laughed 
his  laugh  in  his  throat. 

"No,  never,  Uncle.  He  has  never  spoken  to 
me  so." 

"  How  would  you  like  to  be  a  poor  parson's  wife, 
you,  a  De  Vere,  and  rich,  to  live  in  a  hole  and  eat 
bread  and  cheese,  and  run  after  all  the  brats  and 
wretches  in  the  parish,  to  go  to  prayer  meetings, 
and  have  all  the  tenantry  to  tea?  You  would 
make  a  nice  figure  as  a  parson's  \vife,  you  know, 
and  you  are  strong,  and  have  been  bred  to  hard- 
ships, such  as  eating  your  dinners  and  having  your 
bills  paid  for  you  by  your  footman." 

"But  I  have  something  of  my  own,  Uncle," 
Helen  said,  listening  more  quietly  as  Sir  Chauncey 
went  011  with  his  delightful  picture. 

"  Ah,  you  have  arranged  it  all,  I  see  ;  and  so  has 
that  disinterested  friend  of  yours,  Mr.  Ardenne. 
Parsons  are  perfect  hounds  on  the  scent  when 
they  are  running  down  a  fortune.  Their  piety 


34  Sir  Chauncey  De   Vere. 

sharpens  their  nose  wonderfully.  I  never  knew 
one  of  the  pack  who  wasn't  out  on  the  hunt. 
Your  friend  shows  taste.  He  will  marry  the  estate, 
and  take  the  live  stock  on  it  as  it  stands." 

The  blood  came  back  to  her  face  and  a  new 
light  was  in  her  eyes  as  Helen  listened  to  Sir 
Chauncey's  cruel  words.  She  was  after  all  a 
De  Vere,  and  her  blood  had  been  ill  bred  to  brook 
outrage  silently. 

"  You  wrong  him,  sir,  when  you  think  him  cap- 
able of  such  motives.  Mr.  Ardenne  is  a  gentle- 
man and  a  clergyman,  and  I  am  sure  always  re- 
members he  is  that.  I  would  trust  his  honor 
anywhere.  Besides  I  think  if  I  loved  a  man  (and 
the  gentle  voice  grew  distinct  and  steady  as  she 
went  on)  and  gave  him  my  hand,  I  would  be  glad 
to  give  the  whole  world  with  it,  if  I  had  it." 

"  Nonsense  ;  that  is  like  a  woman,  always  talk- 
ing about  sacrificing  yourselves  to  what  you  call 
your  heart.  You  are  all  martyrs  or  wish  to  be  so. 
But  I  will  allow  no  ward  of  mine  to  get  into  the 
clutches  of  a  parson.  I  hate  the  whole  pack.  It  is 
no  use  arguing  with  women  —  they  leave  off  where 
they  started.  I  will  end  the  matter.  This  young 
parson,  Frederic  Ardenne,  or  whatever  you  call 
him,  is  not  to  come  here  any  more.  You  had 
better  send  him  his  conge  d'elire  at  once.  Do  you 
hear?" 

"  I  hear  all  you  say." 


Sir  Chauncey  De    Fere.  35 

"But  will  you  obey?" 

"I  will  not  disobey  you.  You  are  my  guardian 
and  are  in  the  place  of  my  father,  who  was  very 
gentle  to  me.  I  am  a  Churchwoman,  and  my 
religion  teaches  me  to  submit  to  superiors  and  to 
honor  my  father  and  my  mother.  I  will  certainly 
tell  Mr.  Ardeime  that  you  wish  he  should  not  come 
again.  I  will  submit." 

"  Submit !  That  is  not  enough.  Give  the  man  up. 
There  is  no  use  in  disguising  matters.  It  is  very 
clear  you  love  him,  no  matter  what  you  say.  Now 
just  give  him  up  and  forget  him.  He  will  find  a 
new  Juliet  among  the  flats  in  a  fortnight.  Pro- 
mise now,  Helen." 

But  Helen  did  not  promise.  Stunned  as  she 
had  been  by  the  beginning  of  this  brutal  colloquy, 
her  woman's  heart  had  been  growing  steady  under 
Sir  Chauncey's  words,  and  her  thoughts  were 
rising  up  to  the  level  of  her  woman's  nature.  As 
she  stood  before  him,  pale,  and  silent  except  when 
obliged  to  answer,  with  the  sacred  shrine  of  her 
heart  and  its  love  invaded  so  coarsely  by  one  who 
should  have  been  her  friend, —  a  child  without  a 
parent,  yet  a  woman  without  guile,  with  all  she  most 
loved  and  that  for  which  she  lived,  now  to  be 
rudely  torn  from  her, —  she  became  the  second  time 
a  woman.  And  then  her  love  for  Frederic  Ar- 
denne,  under  their  wrong,  grew  clear  and  strong, 
and  she  felt  that  she  had  laid  her  life  in  his,  to  be 


36  Sir  Chauncey  De   Vere. 

no  more  separated.  The  blow  upon  one  heart  had 
bound  two  together  in  bonds  that  would  not  break. 

"  Will  you  promise  ?  "  the  uncle  said,  as  Helen, 
revolving  these  things  in  her  mind,  stood  silently 
before  him.  And  then  she  turned  her  face  to  Sir 
Chauncey,  firm  and  calm,  with  every  word  distinct, 
no  longer  a  child  before  him,  but  a  woman,  in  that 
petite,  delicate  form  of  hers,  and  answered. 

"I  do  love  Frederic  Ardenne  with  my  whole 
heart ;  and  I  shall  never  change.  I  have  loved  him 
ever  since  I  was  a  child,  and  he  has  been  always 
gentle  and  true  with  me,  as  his  heart  is,  a  gentle- 
man's. When  you  asked  me  whether  I  loved  him 
just  now,  I  told  you  I  did  not  know.  I  know  now. 
I  love  him.  I  told  you,  when  you  commanded  it 
that  I  would  see  that  he  did  not  come  here  any 
more ;  and  I  will  do  it.  I  will  do  it  because  it  is 
right.  I  will  submit  to  you  in  all  just  things, 
because  my  Church  teaches  me  obedience.  But 
my  Church  does  not  teach  me  to  deny  my  own  heart, 
and  that  I  never  will.  I  will  give  up  seeing  him  ; 
I  may  perhaps  never  marry  him ;  certainly  not 
against  your  will.  But  I  love  him  always,  and 
will  be  true  to  him.  I  do  not,  and  cannot,  promise 
what  you  wish."  A  woman  with  a  heart  at  bay 
against  Sir  Chauncey  De  Vere !  It  is  a  woman 
that  would  die  for  the  faith  which  she  has  plighted. 

Sir  Chauncey  hesitated  a  moment,  to  take  coun- 
sel of  his  wisdom.  And  then  he  answered  coldly  ? 


Sir  Chauncey  De   Vere.  37 

"  Very  well.     We  will  arrange  the  matter.     That 
is  all."     And  Helen  went  out. 

Sir  Chauncey  refreshed  himself  after  his  labors 
with  a  glass  of  brandy,  drunk  clear,  and  then  dis- 
posed his  immaculate  and  regal  body  in  his  arm 
chair  for  a  nap.  What  pure  and  gentle  angels 
must  frequent  and  guard  the  sleep  of  so  generous 
a  soul  as  Sir  Chauncey  De  Vere's ! 


CHAPTER    IV. 

EASTER   IN   THE   CATHEDRAL. 

MEANWHILE  the  writing  of  Frederic  Ardenne's 
sermon  went  on.  First  .of  all,  as  was  fit,  he 
kneeled  down  and  prayed  God  to  give  him  right 
words  to  say  in  His  Son's  Church,  before  the  peo- 
ple ;  for  he  knew  what  men  of  his  order  very  soon 
learn,  how  the  path  to  true  eloquence  lies  through 
the  gate  of  prayer.  After  that,  he  wrote  over 
the  text,  "  In  the  name  of  God,  Amen,"  and  went 
down  to  the  Archdeacon's  library.  There  he  read 
in  the  Church  Fathers  about  Easter.  And  as  he 
read,  he  was  struck,  as  never  before,  by  the  fact 
of  the  great  importance  which  all  Christian  men 
attached  to  the  due  celebration  of  this  royal 
feast;  as  that  kingly  day  in  the  church  which 
governed  all  the  rest.  Everywhere,  in  the  decrees 
of  councils,  and  in  the  writings  of  saintly  men,  the 
same  earnestness  for  its  honor  and  its  observance 
was  manifest.  No  man  who  called  himself  a  Chris- 
tian but  kept  it.  No  man  for  ages  was  held  a 
Christian  who  did  not  keep  it.  And  men  cele- 
brated this  chief  Sunday  as  they  did  all  Sundays, 
because  the  whole  Church  from  time  immemorial, 


Uaster  in  the   Cathedral.  39 

and  especially  that  Church  of  the  apostolic  ages 
which  had  resisted  unto  blood  for  the  faith  as  it 
is  in  Jesus,  had  always  kept  it  as  a  duty  never 
questioned  —  as  a  blessing  never  to  be  given  up. 
It  was  plain  to  him  that  the  early  Christians  held 
Easter  to  be  as  truly  a  part  of  the  Christian 
economy  as  Sunday  or  the  sacraments  were. 
They  might  be  right  or  wrong ;  but  no  man  could 
dispute  the  fact  that  they  so  held  it. 

Then  when  he  had  read  the  Easter  lore,  Fred- 
eric went  out-doors  to  meditate.  First  of  all  he 
walked  through  the  ancient  town.  In  the  thick 
English  fog  of  the  lowery  April  day  its  quaint 
rows  and  buildings  assumed  a  more  ghostly  and 
ancient  look  than  ever  before.  "  How  old  it  all 
seems,  "  he  thought.  Here,  without  doubt,  were 
those  ancient  Britons,  whose  rule  had  passed  away 
before  the  Passion,  of  our  Lord.  Here  had  been 
the  Twentieth  Legion  and  the  feet  of  all-con- 
quering Rome.  And  since  their  time  what  races, 
tongues,  flamens,  priests,  soldiers,  pardoners, 
monks,  kings,  bishops,  and  hosts  of  untitled  and 
now  forgotten  people  had  lived  and  passed  away 
from  here,  and  left  hardly  a  trace  of  themselves 
upon  any  building  or  street  of  the  sombre  and 
silent  town.  The  very  dust  of  the  streets  were  the 
ashes  of  the  dead.  It  seemed  to  him  as  if  all  life 
was  Lent  time, — a  Lenten  service  of  struggle, 
of  waste,  of  weakness,  of  decay  and  dissolution  ; 


40  Easter  in  the   Cathedral, 

and  as  though  Ash  Wednesday,  the  day  of  ashes 
as  well  as  the  first  of  the  Church's  Lent,  was 
in  all  days,  men  fared  so.  Then  he  went  out  of 
the  streets  through  the  Close  into  the  Cathedral. 
It  was  near  the  hour  of  Evening  Prayer.  He 
entered  through  the  low  archway,  and  walked 
along  the  covered  cloisters,  where  in  old  times  the 
monks  lived.  The  very  stones  of  the  arches  had 
crumbled,  and  the  stone  carving  of  saint  or  flower 
had  been  worn  away  by  time,  or  mutilated  by  men 
of  past  ages,  for  whom  there  was  no  longer  any 
time.  The  echo  of  his  own  footsteps  upon  the 
flagstones  were  the  only  sounds  that  fell  upon  his 
ear.  He  stopped  and  looked  around  him.  Where 
were  the  monks  with  cowls  —  the  pilgrims  from 
Holy  Land,  the  scribes  wan  with  vigils  or  the 
wearisome  toil  of  those  illuminated  missals  which 
they  had  writ  and  embellished  with  monastic 
ornament  in  the  service  of  Mother  Church  ?  Where 
were  all  the  sojourners  and  laborers,  that  for  a 
thousand  years  or  more  had  gathered  to  this  spot 
in  the  solemn  service  of  a  priestly  life,  and  had 
now  been  gathered  to  their  fathers?  And  neither 
the  worn  stones  of  the  dark  and  crumbled  clois- 
ters, nor  the  vacant  niches,  nor  the  silent  Cath- 
edral tower  above  him,  nor  the  curt  green  grass 
springing  above  the  dust  of  a  thousand  years,  in 
the  rectangle  of  the  cloisters,  could  tell  him.  It 
was  Lent,  he  thought,  in  the  very  house  of  God. 


Easter  in  the    Cathedral.  41 

He  went  in  to  the  service.  An  old  woman,  leading 
a  little  girl,  went  in  just  before  him,  entering  His 
gates  who  hath  made  both  youth  and  age  to  praise 
Him.  They  knelt  in  prayer  as  they  came  to  their 
seats,  as  men  have  bowed  themselves  in  His  sanct- 
uaries during  all  the  ages  of  the  Church.  The  choir 
boys  and  the  priests  sat  in  the  same  stalls  that 
the  generations  of  choristers  and  prayer-men  had 
filled  before  them.  When  the  service  began,  the 
same  confessions  were  made,  the  same  prayers 
said,  the  same  lessons  read,  the  same  anthems 
chanted,  as  had  been  in  use  here  and  elsewhere 
from  time  immemorial.  It  was  true  that  the 
monks  were  dead  and  Chester  folk,  and  there  was 
no  light  nor  voice  in  the  cloister  at  this  evensong, 
and  yet  here  was  a  service,  a  something  he  saw 
that  was  not  dead  —  did  not  seem  to  die.  They 
who  prayed  and  they  who  sung  had  taken  up  the 
one  service  with  the  one  intent  of  those  who  had 
been  and  died  before  them,  to  furnish  forth 
worship  of  Eternity.  What  meant  this  song  ? 
Frederic  Ardenne  saw  that  while  he  had  been 
looking  at  things  about  him,  the  Church  service 
was  always  pointing  to  things  above  him.  True, 
so  many  men  were  dead,  and  here  it  was  Lents 
and  Ash  Wednesdays  for  the  best.  But  the  lita- 
nies and  psalms  of  a  thousand  years  in  the  Cathe- 
dral had  been  always  lifting  men  above  Lent  to 
Easter,  and  leading  them  out  from  days  of  ashes, 


42  Easter  in  the   Cathedral. 

and  from  beneath  crosses,  and  from  stumbling  at 
grave  sides,  to  the  land  of  the  palm  and  the  crown, 
and  the  Easter  of  the  white  robes  and  the  stainless 
skies,  and  the  crossless  home  ;  to  the  life  without 
tears  and  the  pavilions  of  peace  deeper  than  the  seas. 
Frederic  Ardenne  had  found  his  sermon.  The 
one  thing  eternal  in  this  world,  he  said  to  himself, 
is  the  Church.  And  that  Bride  of  Christ  standing 
amongst  the  graves  of  the  past,  and  men  outwardly 
of  dust  and  ashes  who  seem  to  perish,  is  the  pure 
and  gentle  prophetess  of  a  life  that  cannot  perish, 
of  a  conquest  that  is  always  sure.  In  the  order  of 
the  Church's  year  on  earth,  Easter  follows  Lent 
indeed,  but  Lent  returns  with  every  year.  In 
heaven  Easter  runs  through  all  the  year,  and  the 
year  is  endless. 

It  was  Easter  Sunday  in  the  Cathedral.  It  was 
also  Easter  Sunday  over  the  whole  earth.  It  was 
Easter  Sunday  for  the  living.  It  was  Easter  Sun- 
day for  the  dead  who  died  in  the  Lord.  It  was  a 
new  Easter  and  yet  like  all  the  rest  that  had  been 
before  it,  since  the  Christ  who  had  risen  from  the 
dead  wao  the  same  and  the  human  hearts  that  wait 
for  Him  and  His  resurrection. 

It  was  an  Easter  too  full  of  joy  for  the  Cathe- 
dral. The  very  sandstone  of  its/walls  seemed  sat- 
urate with  the  mellow  April  sunshine,  and  the 
graves  under  its  shadows  appeared  to  wear  a  more 
cheerful  and  happy  look.  The  sons  and  daughters 


Easter  in  the   Cathedral.  43 

of  the  Church  went  in  to  the  dark  oak  seats  where 
so  many  had  come  before  their  time,  and  the  gentry 
of  the  shire,  of  historic  name  and  lineage,  came  as 
their  fathers  had  to  keep  Easter  in  the  Cathedral. 
The  bishop  on  his  throne,  part  of  St.  Werburgh's 
shrine,  they  say,  of  a  thousand  years  ago,  the  sing- 
ing boys  in  white  and  the  white-robed  priests  that 
read  were  of  a  line  and  ritual  very  old.  The  Easter 
prayers  and  anthems  were  holy  with  the  memories 
of  uncounted  generations  of  Church-folk  who  had 
prayed  and  sung  there.  And  when  the  notes  of 
Handel's  majestic  anthem,  "  I  know  that  my  Re- 
deemer liveth,"  rose  and  swelled  with  the  voice  of 
the  great  organ,  and  rolled  over  the  stone  tombs  of 
dead  abbots  laid  asleep  in  the  Cathedral  choir 
five  centuries  ago,  and  floated  and  trembled  far 
up  among  the  arches  of  the  nave,  and  shook  the 
dust  from  the  worn  tapestries  with  their  monkish 
legends  wrought  by  fingers  now  dust  and  ashes, 
and  shook  the  tattered  war  banners  borne  on  red 
fields  by  stout  hands  of  soldiers  long  since  dead  — 
though  the  dead  heard  not  and  the  dust  moved  not 
in  the  wasted  shouds,  it  lifted  the  loving  hearts 
who  worshipped  in  the  holy  music  above  the  mor- 
tal waste  and  sleep  around  them  to  another  realm, 
where  are  the  litanies  that  have  no  cry  of  pain, 
and  the  praises  of  Cherubim  and  Seraphim  who 
stand  with  unshut  eyes  in  watch  and  worship  be- 
fore His  throne  forever. 


44  Easter  in  the   Cathedral. 

Then  followed  the  sermon. 

Christ  is  risen.  Yea,  He  hath  risen  and  ap- 
peared to  Simon.  With  such  salutations  have  Chris- 
tians greeted  each  other  on  Easter  morning  ever 
since  He  rose  from  the  dead  in  triumph.  This  is 
the  Sabbath  of  life  eternal.  This  is  the  queen 
of  feasts  —  the  Easter  Sunday  of  immortality. 
This  is  the  feast  of  white  robes,  and  the  forty  days 
of  Lent  have  end.  Now,  with  the  risen  Christ,  Hb 
Church  rises  to  a  new  life  and  hope.  All  Christian 
ages  celebrate  this  day  with  song,  psalm,  organ, 
prayer,  and  sacrament.  In  ancient  days  the  devout 
watched  its  coming  in  the  churches  among  the 
lighted  candles,  and  when  it  came  Christian  cities 
at  Easter-tide  were  hung  thick  with  lamps  which 
made  the  very  darkness  light.  The  business  of  this 
world  ended  ;  the  very  courts  of  justice  closed  fast 
against  all  business  except  the  mercy  that  would 
manumit  a  slave  ;  prisoners  went  free,  unbound  by 
that  love  in  Him  who  had  unchained  all  prisoners 
out  of  the  hands  of  Death  ;  and  the  great  feast  of 
love  and  reconciliation  in  Christ  proceeded.  From 
the  first  the  Church  hath  gathered  about  the  broken 
tomb  in  which  the  cere-cloths  had  been  laid  aside 
to  hear  the  Risen  say  "  I  am  the  Resurrection  and 
the  Life,"  to  look  through  veils  into  that  land  where 
believers  are  gathered  in  bliss.  It  is  the  one  tomb, 
of  all  that  have  ever  fretted  or  burdened  the  bosom 
of  our  Mother  Earth,  which  has  no  pang  or  fear  in  it, 


Easter  in  the    Cathedral.  45 

and  its  light  gilds  and  glorifies  every  Christian  grave. 
Beside  it  all  Christians  hear  it  said,"  Because  I  live, 
ye  shall  live  also."  It  is  a  broken  tomb  that  breaks 
all  others  for  the  resurrection.  In  that  tomb  the 
Church  has  ever  found  proofs  of  our  Lord's  divin- 
ity and  the  foundations  of  a  great  hope.  A  thou- 
sand years  after  the  first  Easter  and  Christian  crusa- 
ders in  Palestine  woke  their  camps  with  their  strong 
war  cry,  "  Remember  the  Holy  Sepulchre."  And 
ever  since  Christians,  wherever  scattered  over  the 
globe,  have  called  to  each  other  in  the  great  un- 
wearied faith  of  Christ's-folk  "  Remember  the  Holy 
Sepulchre."  How  strange  that  out  of  the  very 
grave  itself  proceed  tidings  of  the  one  sure  shad- 
dowless,  tearless,  crossless  life.  The  Catholic  faith 
renews  itself  forever  at  a  tomb.  How  wonderful ! 
The  resurrection  of  Jesus  Christ  changed  the 
thought  of  the  world  touching,  the  most  solemn 
problem,  namely,  its  condition  beyond  the  grave. 
For  it  was  clear  that  all  men  died.  For  the  heathen 
world  the  grave  was  its  enemy,  its  executioner,  its 
merciless,  eternal  jailer.  There  was  something 
about  the  grave  that  maddened  it,  that  paralyzed 
it.  Other  things  it  saw  had  choice,  but  the  grave 
had  no  choice  ;  it  took  all  —  king,  queen,  peasant 
and  slave  alike ;  woman  in  the  flush  of  beauty  and 
man  in  the  pride  of  majesty  ;  the  patriarch  of  un- 
told winters  ;  and  the  babe  whose  life  was  spanned 
by  a  single  spring.  Other  things  became  satiate 


46  Easter  in  the   Cathedral. 

and  full :  the  wild  beasts  of  prey  rested  sometimes 
from  their  cruel  sport  and  feast.  But  the  grave  had 
no  day  of  rest,  had  no  pastime,  was  never  satiate, 
was  never  full.  The  very  murderers  sometimes 
forewarned  their  victims,  but  the  grave  never  spoke 
before  it  smote.  To  antiquity  it  was  the  one 
ghastly  pit  that  received  and  consumed  forever. 
The  best  thought  of  imperial  Rome  wrote  such 
epitaphs  as  these  upon  its  tombs  by  the  Appian 
Way,  "  While  I  lived,  I  lived  well.  My  play  is  now 
ended  :  soon  yours  will  be.  Farewell  and  applaud 
me.  "  "  Domus  seternalis  "  —  "  the  eternal  home." 
But  the  sand-diggers  and  water-carriers  of  Rome, 
believers  in  the  Resurrection,  when  the  Emperor 
was  hunting  them  down  with  sword  and  lion  in 
the  arena,  laid  their  dead  away  in  the  Catacombs, 
and,  in  the  darkness  made  visible  by  flickering 
torches,  graved  with  a  rude  hand  pious  mottoes  of 
faith  over  the  sleepers,  such  as  these  "  Vitalis : 
buried  on  Saturday,  the  kalends  of  August.  She 
lived  twenty-five  years  and  three  months.  In 
Christ  the  first  and  the  last."  "  Valeria  sleeps  in 
peace."  Often  of  a  man  :  "  He  sleeps  in  the  peace 
of  the  Lord;"  or  this  of  a  child,  "  You  have 
already  begun  to  be  among  the  innocent  ones ; " 
and  of  another  child  :  "  Taken  away  by  the  angels 
on  the  7th  Ides  of  January."  When  heathen 
law  allowed  them  to  bury  Christians  openly, 
their  grave-yards  were  called  "places  of  sleep." 


Easter  in  the   Cathedral.  47 

These  "  places  of  sleep "  were  outside  the  city's 
walls  and  near  some  travelled  road,  as  the 
heathen  ever,  in  order  that  travellers  coming  into 
the  pomp  and  circumstance  of  a  living  city,  might 
first  pass  through  the  city  of  the  dead,  to  be  re- 
minded of  their  own  mortality.  The  heathen 
buried  their  dead  at  night ;  the  Christians  in  the 
sunlight ;  the  one  buried  their  dead  with  wailings  ; 
the  others  with  sacred  song  and  psalm. 

Observe  a  Christian  funeral  of  the  third  century. 
It  is  a  company  in  white.  The  bearers,  dressed  in 
white,  bear  out  the  body,  also  clad  in  white.  They 
bring  no  flowers  in  their  hands  to  crown  the  dead, 
since,  as  one  of  them  has  told  us,  "We  do  not 
make  fading  crowns  for  ourselves,  but  expect  a 
crown  of  everlasting  flowers  from  God."  Perhaps 
they  have  just  come  out  of  a  church,  where 
they  had  watched  the  body  during  the  night,  and 
the  Holy  Eucharist  has  just  been  celebrated.  It 
is  morning  time  ;  yet  the  procession  gleams  with 
torches  whose  flames  signify  life.  Then  they  sing 
such  words  as  these :  "  For  precious  in  the  sight 
of  the  Lord  is  the  death  of  his  saints."  "  Return 
to  thy  rest,  O  my  soul,  for  the  Lord  hath  rewarded 
thee."  "The  memory  of  the  just  shall  be  blessed." 
"The  souls  of  the  just  are  in  the  hands  of  the 
Lord."  "  I  will  fear  no  evil,  because  thou  art 
with  me."  Thus  they  moved  slowly  outside  the 
city  to  the  grave,  where  they  would  give  the  body, 


48  Easter  in  the   Cathedral. 

not  as  the  heathen  did,  to  the  flame,  but  to  the 
more  gentle  embrace  of  that  earth  which  would 
hold  it  in  its  bosom  till  the  Judgment.  No  tears 
mingled  with  the  chanted  psalms,  since  those 
Christians  were  taught  to  think  death  liberation 
from  care,  the  beginning  of  Paradise.  At  the 
grave  the  heathen  sometimes  opened  the  eyes  of 
the  dead  that  they  might  take  a  last  look  at 
earth  and  sky  ;  but  the  shut  eyes  of  the  Christians 
remained  unopened,  since  the  dead  in  their  sleep 
beheld  more  beautiful  than  earthly  things.  When 
they  laid  the  body  in  the  grave,  perhaps  the  priest 
sprinkled  some  dust  in  the  form  of  a  cross  upon  it, 
as  Christians  do  to-day. 

Then  they  returned  home  in  peace  again,  and 
always  in  their  families  they  spoke  of  the  dead  as 
those  who  had  gone  to  Jesus,  and  of  their  dead  chil- 
dren as  the  lambs  which  were  forever  carried  in  the 
bosom  of  the  Good  Shepherd.  Thus  death  had  no 
pang  to  the  faith,  and  the  grave  became  the  gate  to 
Beautiful  House,  where  the  disciple  dwelt  in  per- 
petual bliss. 

It  is  true  also  that  as  the  Church  became 
corrupt  the  grave  became  dark.  In  those  medi- 
aeval ages  when  all  horrors  were  associated  with 
death,  and  the  skull  and  the  cross-bones  took  place 
of  the  cross  and  the  palm,  it  was  only  the  heathen 
darkness  rolled  back  against  the  light  of  the 
Resurrection  Morn  ;  the  Broken  Tomb  sealed  up 


Easter  in  the   Cathedral.  49 

again  against  souls  orphaned  of  their  risen  Lord. 
Yet  even  in  these  days,  because  the  Church  could 
not  exist  without  her  Easter,  and  the  hope  it  gave 
her,  they  did  not  doubt  of  immortality.  The 
Greek  Church,  when  she  placed  in  gloomy  line 
her  robed  and  mitred  bishops  in  their  episcopal 
chairs, —  the  Bible  open  upon  their  knees,  their 
hand  uplifted  to  give  the  benediction, —  to  await 
the  resurrection,  testified  to  the  ancient  faith. 
Roman  and  Anglican  in  their  own  way  have 
always  done  the  same ;  and  we  heritors  of  the 
faith  of  saints  gathered  this  Easter  around  Christ's 
broken  tomb  take  up  the  old  thanksgivings,  look- 
ing on  to  the  Hereafter  in  which  our  Lord  reigns 
in  glory. 

Easter,  therefore,  prophesies  of  Heaven.  It  pro- 
claims the  New  Jerusalem  of  the  twelve  gates  of 
pearls,  guarded  of  angels,  through  which  enter 
none  that  defile,  nor  any  that  work  abomination 
or  make  a  lie,  but  they  who  are  written  in  the 
Lamb's  book  of  life ;  city  of  the  jasper  light  as 
clear  as  crystal,  with  walls  of  jasper,  whose  founda- 
tions are  of  sapphire,  and  emerald,  and  beryl, 
and  amethyst;  city  of  the  River  of  Life  flowing 
from  the  throne  of  sovereignty,  and  in  midstreet 
whereof  standeth  the  Tree  of  Life,  twelve-fruited 
every  month,  whose  leaves  of  mercy  heal  the  na- 
tions, and  round  whose  trunk  twines,  not  the  cruel 
amaranth,  but  asphodel  of  life  eternal;  city  of  the 


50  Easter  in  the   Cathedral. 

door  of  rest  that  no  man  shuts,  and  of  the  multi- 
tude that  no  man  numbers;  city  of  the  emerald 
throne  circled  of  the  rainbow  and  girt  of  the 
elders  robed  in  white  with  golden  crowns,  who 
fall  down  before  it  with  harps  of  a  new  song 
touching  Him  who  was  slain  from  the  foundation 
of  the  world,  and  outpouring  the  incense  of  odors, 
which  are  the  prayers  of  saints ;  whose  voice  is  as 
the  voice  of  many  waters  ;  city  where  they  neither 
thirst  nor  hunger,  and  where  no  sun  lights  on 
them  nor  any  heat.  "  For  the  Lamb,  which  is  in 
the  midst  of  the  throne  shall  lead  them  unto  living 
fountains  of  waters,  and  God  shall  wipe  away  all 
tears  from  their  eyes." 


CHAPTER    V. 

MISS   HANNAH. 

IT  is  right  to  go  back  a  little  in  our  story  to 
Helen  De  Vere.  When  she  left  the  sweet  coun- 
sellings  of  that  true  gentleman,  Sir  Chauncey, 
she  went  straight  to  her  room,  locked  the  door, 
and  then  wept,  like  the  poor,  troubled,  lonely 
child  she  was.  Miss  Hannah  heard  her  footsteps 
on  the  stairs  and  went  to  her.  She  knocked,  and 
there  was  no  answer.  "  It  is  I,  Helen,"  said  the 
aunt ;  "  let  me  come  in ;"  and  the  door  was 
opened. 

Miss  Hannah  De  Vere  was  what  men  profanely 
call  an  old  maid ;  but  her  heart  was  very  young. 
She  had  kept  it  young  because  she  had  nurtured 
in  it  a  dream  of  her  youth,  forever  to  be  unrealized, 
and  the  dream  was  Love.  True,  the  fates  had  been 
averse,  and  she  had  given  up,  as  such  women  do, 
at  the  demand  of  her  family,  the  one  man  who  had 
ever  known  her  or  loved  her  as  strong-hearted  men 
love  women ;  that  is  to  say,  Miss  Hannah  would 
not  disobey  her  kinsfolks  by  a  marriage  before  the 
world,  but  she  kept  and  was  true  to  the  marriage 
of  her  heart  which  she  hid  from  the  world,  and 


52  Miss  Hannah. 

now  the  nuptials  were  very  old.  True,  her  lover 
was  dead,  and  she  wore  no  widow's  weeds ;  but 
her  heart  mourned  daily ;  and  while  it  mourned  it 
hoped  —  hoped  for  the  Hereafter.  For  though  in 
the  Hereafter  they  neither  marry  nor  are  given  in 
marriage,  Miss  Hannah  fancied  how  a  pure  human 
love,  thwarted  no  more  of  mere  human  selfishness 
and  heartlessness,  is  satisfied  in  a  most  holy  frui- 
tion, so  that  even  He  who  Himself  loved  us  with  a 
love  excelling  woman's  would  not  rebuke  it.  Her 
heart  was  therefore  very  gentle  towards  all  lovers, 
and  long  ago  she  promised  herself  with  a  vow, 
very  like  a  most  solemn  oath,  that  she  would 
never  come  between  two  hearts. 

Helen  opened  the  door  for  her  aunt.  The  face 
was  very  pale  and  there  were  tears,  but  the  lips 
were  set,  and  there  was  a  clear  light  in  the  brown 
eyes,  and  a  certain  womanly  bearing  in  her  who 
had  been  so  rudely  assailed,  and  whose  nature  was 
roused  in  defiance  of  such  brutality.  Miss  Hannah 
put  her  arms  about  her  and  kissed  her  forehead 
again  and  again  without  a  word.  Then  she  man- 
aged very  gently  to  lead  her  to  the  sofa  and  make 
her  comfortable  on  it,  with  her  head  in  Miss  Han- 
nah's lap,  while  the  latter  smoothed  gently  the  soft 
hair,  as  any  mother  might.  Then  she  waited  until 
the  sobs  that  seemed  to  come  out  of  the  child's 
heart  grew  more  infrequent  and  at  last  altogether 
ceased.  Miss  Hannah  proceeded  cautiously  to 
give  her  good  advice. 


Miss  Hannah.  53 

"  So  Sir  Chauncey  has  been  speaking  harshly  to 
3rou,  Helen  ?  "  and  both  hands  were  laid  on  the 
smooth  hair,  caressingly. 

"  Yes,  Auntie." 

"  Your  uncle  is  a"  severe  man,  and  we  all  have 
to  put  up  with  his  behaviors."  (Sir  Chauncey 
was  one  who  had  interfered  with  Miss  Hannah 
long  ago.) 

"If  my  father  were  alive  (a  sob  out  of  her 
heart)  he  would  never  dare  to  speak  to  me  as  he 
has.  I  am  only  an  orphan." 

"You  are  my  child,"  the  aunt  said.  "I  will 
look  out  for  you.  Can  you  tell  me  what  he  blamed 
you  for?"  (O,  Miss  Hannah  of  indirection  but 
a  very  gentle  heart,  it  is  you  who  know  exactly.) 

"  It  was  about  Mr.  Ardenne.  I  can't  tell  you, 
Aunty,  what  was  said."  The  aunt  waited  patiently 
for  her  niece,  but  the  hands  that  smoothed  the 
hair  grew  gentler. 

"  I  have  no  right  to  love  him,"  she  said,  finally, 
after  a  long  silence,  as  if  half  in  answer  to  herself, 
and  half  to  her  aunt's  silence,  which  said,  "  I  am 
waiting,  my  dear,  for  you  to  trust  me."  "  I  have 
no  right  to  love  him." 

"Why  not,  my  dear  ?  " 

"  He  has  never  told  me  that  he  loved  me,  Aunt." 

"  He  has  never  told  you  anything  else  since  I 
have  known  you  two,"  said  the  aunt,  with  a  half- 
smile  at  Helen's  innocence. 


54  Miss  Hannah. 

"  Don't  laugh  at  me,  Aunt,  I  beseech  you." 

"  Laugh  at  you  !  No,  no.  But  tell  me,  Helen, 
—  you  are  a  child,  I  know,  but  tell  me.  Do  you 
think  if  a  man  loves  you  he  can  only  tell  you  so  in 
so  many  words,  and  say,  I  love  you  ;  come  and 
be  my  wife?  No  !  if  he  is  a  man  he  will  tell  you 
that  in  a  hundred  ways  :  by  a  look,  a  tone,  a  mo- 
tion, by  the  way  he  picks  up  your  glove,  or  hands 
you  a  book,  or  touches  your  hand  ;  and  a  woman's 
heart  hears  every  motion  or  a  look.  Now,  tell 
me.  Did  it  never  occur  to  you  that  Mr.  Ardenne 
loved  you  ?  " 

"  I  have  never  known  it,  Aunt." 

"  My  poor,  dear  little  Helen.  You  do  not  know 
it  ?  I  know  it.  I  am  sure  he  loved  you  years  ago. 
And  he  will  be  true  to  you.  A  man  with  a  face 
like  his  is  always  true  with  women." 

"  How  do  you  know  it  Aunt  ?  " 

"  Do  you  wish  me  to  prove  it  to  you,  Helen  ?  I 
should  as  soon  think  of  proving  you  were  my 
niece  and  that  I  loved  you.  But  I  will  prove  it. 
Mr.  Ardenne  is  a  gentleman  ;  a  man  compromises 
himself  to  a  woman  as  well  by  his  acts  as  by  his 
words.  A  gentleman  is  true  to  his  compromises 
always.  Mr.  Ardenne  has  said  by  his  acts  a  thou- 
sand times,  I  love  you.  Therefore  he  loves  you." 
Then  Miss  Hannah,  having  made  her  syllogism, 
waited  for  her  niece. 

Helen  said,  finally,  "  Sir  Chauncey  declares  that 


Miss  Hannah.  55 

Mr.  Ardenne  shall  not  come  here  any  more,  and 
orders  me  to  give  him  up.  What  shall  I  do  ?  " 

"  Tell  him  what  Sir  Chauncey  says,  and  let  him 
behave  accordingly." 

"  But  shall  I  give  him  up,  Auntie  ?  " 

Then  the  aunt  rose  to  the  height  of  the  author- 
ity of  a  woman's  heart  which  once  suffered  a  great 
wrong.  For  a  maiden  of  fifty  she  spoke  with 
vehemence. 

"  What !  give  him  up,  if  you  love  him  ?  Cer- 
tainly not  —  never.  Suffer,  endure  wrong,  be 
patient,  wait,  wait  thirty  years  if  needs  be,  resist 
no  authority,  but  be  true  to  the  man  whom  you 
love.  God  and  the  good  angels  never  come  be- 
tween two  hearts  that  love  each  other.  The  men 
and  women  who  interfere  are  neither.  I,  your 
poor  auntie,  tell  you  something,  Helen.  I  gave 
up  a  man  once  whom  I  loved  and  who  loved  me, 
because  people  wished  it,  and  I  thought  it  was  my 
duty.  What  good  did  it  do?  It  pleased  them, 
true ;  but  was  I  bound  to  please  them  with  my 
lifelong  pain?  They  married  and  loved  little 
children.  I  did  not,  because  they  wished  it  not. 
If  God  did  not  ask  the  sacrifice  what  right  had 
they  ?  God  gave  me  a  heart  to  love  this  man, 
and  I  loved  him.  I  love  him  now,  though  he  is  in 
his  grave.  If  I  loved  him  (and  he  was  pure  and 
noble,  believe  me,  Helen)  he  had  a  right  to  de- 
mand I  should  keep  to  him,  and  I  wronged  him 


56  Miss  Hannah. 

and  myself  when  I  failed  him,  and  obliged  selfish 
and  merciless  people.  No,  Helen.  Be  true  to 
Frederic  Ardenne." 

Helen  kissed  the  hands  which  smoothed  the  hair 
upon  her  forehead,  as  her  sufficient  answer.  Two 
women  understood  each  other.  And  hours  after, 
when  her  niece  fell  asleep  in  her  arms,  Miss  Han- 
nah prayed  out  of  her  heart  to  God  above  them 
both  that  He  would  lead  and  keep  this  child  true 
to  her  own  heart  and  the  pure  love  that  dwelt 
there. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

TWO   MEN   AT   CROSS   PURPOSES. 

FREDERIC  ARDENNE  received  the  congratula- 
tions of  his  friends.  Even  the  Archdeacon  was 
pleased  to  say  that  his  nephew's  sermon  was  credi- 
table. For  the  praise  of  one,  which  he  prized  most, 
he  was  still  waiting. 

Meanwhile,  as  we  have  seen,  unknown  to  him, 
his  fortunes,  in  those  things  which  most  closely 
touched  his  future,  had  been  determined  at  the 
De  Veres'.  It  was  well  at  least  that  what  was  so 
sinister  should  come  to  him  after  Easter  Sunday. 
Easter  Monday,  in  the  morning,  he  would  visit  his 
friends,  though  Sir  Chauncey  had  come  home.  He 
went,  and  as  he  came  Helen  and  her  aunt  were 
just  entering  the  carriage  for  a  drive.  He  lifted 
his  hat  and  wished  the  ladies  "  a  Happy  Easter." 
Helen  turned  to  him  with  a  start,  and  he  saw  her 
face  was  very  pale. 

"Are  you  sick,  my  child?"  he  said  anxiously. 

"No!  But  you  must  not  come  here  nor  even 
stop  now.  I  can't  tell  you  why,  standing  here.  I 
will  send  you  a  note  this  evening  which  will  ex- 
plain. You  must  really  go  now,  I  beg  you." 


58  Two  Men  at   Cross  Purposes. 

A  shadow,  dark,  stormy,  and  such  as  Helen  had 
never  seen  before  on  that  open,  ingenuous  face, 
spread  over  his  features,  but  he  recovered  himself 
at  once,  and  with  a  bow  kept  on  his  walk. 

"  Not  come  here  ?  What  does  that  mean  ?  "  he 
thought.  "  It  is  a  new  fashion  that  forbids  me  to 
see  Helen  De  Vere.  The  late  arrival  is  at  the 
bottom  of  it.  I  have  to  thank  Sir  Chauncey." 
And  the  hot  blood  rushed  to  his  head  till  he  was 
dizzy.  But  he  walked  on  till  he  came  back  home. 
It  was  clear  that  he  could  know  the  worst  or  the 
best  that  had  happened  to  him  when  Helen's  note 
came,  and  till  then  he  must  remain  quiet.  The 
hours  were  very  long  until  her  letter  came.  It  was 

this  :  — 

Easter  Monday. 

DEAR  FRIEND  :  —  I  had  hoped  to  have  seen  you 
to-day  and  talked  over  with  you  the  Easter  Service 
and  some  things  in  which  we  both  are  interested; 
above  all,  how  glad  I  am  you  preached  your  ser- 
mon. But  God  has  ordered  otherwise.  We  have 
always  spoken  truth  together,  dear  friend,  and 
now  I  know  you  wish  me  to  say  truly  what  has 
happened  that  I  cannot  see  you  any  more.  Sir 
Chauncey  has  taken  very  peculiar  views  of  things, 
and  has  told  me  that  hereafter  you  are  not  to  come 
to  the  house.  He  is  my  guardian,  and  in  this  mat- 
ter I  must  obey.  I  must  also  tell  you  that  he  has 
ordered  my  aunt  and  myself  to  be  ready  to  start 


Two  Men  at  Cross  Purposes.  59 

for  Paris  on  Wednesday.  I  am  almost  ashamed  to 
write  this  to  you,  sir,  but  so  it  is.  That  God  may 
keep  and  bless  you  is  the  prayer  of  your  friend, 

HELEN  DEVERE. 

When  Frederic  Ardenne  received  this  note,  he 
very  naturally  read  it.  Then  he  laid  it  carefully 
down  upon  his  table.  Then  he  read  it  again,  and 
then  he  put  it  down  again  and  meditated.  What 
did  he  meditate  ?  What  does  one  meditate  when 
his  ship  goes  down  at  sea,  or  without  sail  or  oar 
he  is  borne  along  the  swift  raceway  of  mad  waters 
to  the  cataract  beyond  ?  Nothing  carefully  or 
coolly,  but  all  with  a  certain  fever  and  delirium 
incident  to  the  withering  blow  that  had  fallen 
upon  his  heart.  And  yet  his  instincts  reached  at 
once  conclusions  from  which  no  after  thought 
could  wrest  them.  He  saw  that  Sir  Chauncey 
had  pitted  himself  against  his  happiness,  and  would 
not  turn  back  for  prayer  or  argument.  So  far  as 
that  man  was  concerned  there  was  nothing  to  be 
done.  But  then  the  woman  whom  he  had  called  a 
child  !  In  all  those  years  when  he  had  known  her, 
their  converse  had  been  so  gentle  that  his  love  for 
her  needed  no  question.  He  would  as  soon  have 
thought  of  asking  himself  whether  he  breathed  as 
whether  he  loved  Helen  De  Vere.  But  now  when 
the  blow  that  was  to  sever  them  had  fallen,  he 
asked  his  heart  the  question,  and  his  heart  answered 


60  Two  Men  at  Cross  Purposes. 

that  there  was  for  him  no  song,  sunshine,  or  beauty 
in  this  world  apart  from  her,  and  that  he  loved 
her  and  all  things  in  earth  and  heaven  for  her. 
Should  he  give  her  up  without  an  effort !  He 
thought  she  loved  him,  but  that  was  not  first  of  all 
his  matter.  It  was  his  matter  that  in  a  thousand 
ways  he  had  shown  his  love  to  her.  Should  he 
turn  his  back  on  her,  and  thus  unsay  his  be- 
havior? What  man  would  do  it?  Only  a  coward. 
No.  It  was  demanded  of  his  honor  that  he  should 
be  true  to  her  and  do  his  part.  He  would  go  to 
Sir  Chauncey  and  in  due  form  demand  permission 
to  address  his  niece,  since  it  had  been  denied. 
Every  man  should  take  the  responsibility  of  his 
own  acts,  and  he  would  not  shirk  his. 

So  he  prepared  to  go.  First  he  tried  to  stay  the 
whirl  and  clamor  of  his  brain ;  and  he  read  from 
St.  John's  Gospel  the  story  of  the  shepherd  and 
his  sheep,  and  prayed  God  to  give  him  patience 
and  silence,  if  it  were  needed  when  he  went.  And 
then  he  went. 

A  servant  carried  in  his  card.  "  Certainly,  show 
him  up."  Sir  Chauncey  received  his  visitor  hold- 
ing his  card  in  his  hand  as  he  stood  beside  the 
mantel.  The  two  men  confronted  arid  measured 
each  other,  both  cool  and  ready  to  enter  on  busi- 
ness. Sir  Chauncey  waited  for  his  visitor  to  begin. 

"  I  beg  leave,  sir,"  the  young  man  said,  "  to  ex- 
plain my  business  with  you.  And  as  between 


Two  Men  at  Cross  Purposes.  61 

gentlemen  the  frankest  way  is  the  best,  allow  me 
to  state  that  for  some  time  now,  in  the  usual  ways, 
I  have  paid  my  addresses  to  your  niece,  Miss  Helen 
De  Vere,  as  a  suitor,  so  far  as  I  know  without  con- 
cealment and  without  denial.  I  desire  to  ask 
your  permission,  therefore,  to  prosecute  my  ad- 
dresses to  that  lady  under  such  conditions  as  you 
may  see  fit  to  impose."  And  Frederic  Ardenue 
awaited  his  answer. 

"  Has  my  niece  told  you  of  an  interview  I  had 
the  happiness  of  holding  with  her  lately  ?  " 

"  No,  sir." 

"  Or  do  you  happen  to  know  from  her  the 
opinion  I  then  expressed  ?  " 

"I  only  know  that  you  were  pleased  to  order 
that  I  was  not  to  visit  the  house  again." 

"  Then  why  do  you  come  here  ?  " 

"  Because  it  was  right  for  me  to  speak  to  you 
face  to  face  about  a  matter  in  which  your  niece 
as  well  as  myself  are  interested,  and  I  could  not, 
after  what  I  suppose  has  passed,  in  justice  to  her, 
do  less  than  to  declare  to  you  my  sentiments  and 
ask  leave  as  I  now  do." 

"Do  you  suppose  I  am  a  man  to  change  my 
mind  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,  sir.  At  least  I  suppose  you  to 
have  the  justice  of  a  gentleman,  and  I  only  desire 
to  endeavor,  as  every  man  would  naturally  wish, 
to  place  my  request  within  the  pale  of  your  plea- 
sure and  your  sense  of  right." 


62  Two  Men  at  Cross  Purposes. 

"  How  do  you  propose  to  do  that  ?  '* 
"  Only  by  stating  frankly  that  I  have  known 
your  niece  from  a  child  and  have  grown  to  love 
her  very  tenderly.  I  have  prospects  in  my  pro- 
fession, and  I  trust  can  offer  Miss  De  Vere  a  pure 
and  honorable  heart." 

Sir  Chauncey  laughed  almost  audibly  at  this 
last  possession  by  which  the  young  man  would 
win  a  bride.  He  contented  himself  with  merely 
asking,  "  Is  that  all  you  have  to  say  ?  " 
"  All  that  I  have  to  say  at  present,  sir." 
Sir  Chauncey,  during  this  colloquy,  eyed  his  vis- 
itor from  head  to  foot ;  and  had  led  the  conversation 
thus  far,  not  with  the  least  imaginable  impulse  to 
change  his  verdict,  but  to  decide  at  what  point  he 
could  strike  a  blow  that  would  cut  deepest  into 
the  nerves  of  the  man  who  piqued  him  by  his 
coolness.  "  There  is  a  natural-born  fighting  man 
under  that  parson's  coat,"  he  thought  as  he  sur- 
veyed the  broad-chested  man  before  him,  and  if 
any  thought  could  have  mollified  Sir  Chauncey's 
humor,  that  would. 

As  it  was,  he  saw  that,  if  at  all,  there  must  be 
a  blunt,  stand-up  fight,  and  so  he  went  on. 

"  You  ask  me,"  he  said  steadily,  "  if  I  will  allow 
you  to  address  my  niece.  I  answer  you,  No.  Is 
that  plain  enough  ?  " 

"  Very  plain  ;  may  I  ask  for  reasons  ?  " 
"  You  have  no  right  to  any  reasons.     It  pleases 
me  so." 


Two  Men  at   Cross  Purposes.  63 

"I  am  to  understand,  then,  that  my  happiness 
in  life  is  to  be  sacrificed  to  your  pleasure." 

"Exactly  ;   if  that  satisfies  you." 

"  You  can  hardly  imagine  that  the  logic  con- 
vinces me." 

"  What  has  logic  to  do  with  it,  when  I  say  it  is 
my  pleasure  ?  Nothing.  I  have  pleased  to  hear 
you.  I  should  have  been  pleased  to  have  you  go 
without  words.  But  if  you  wish  it,  very  well. 
You  ask  reasons.  If  I  wanted  any  reasons  I 
should  find  them  in  the  fact  that  in  my  absence, 
and  without  asking  me,  you,  a  clergyman,  had  car- 
ried on  secretly  an  affair  with  a  child  like  my 
niece." 

The  young  man  faced  him  quietly. 

"  I  have  always  held,"  he  said,  "  that,  holding 
the  position  of  a  gentleman  by  my  profession,  I 
have  a  perfect  right  in  the  way  of  gentlemen  to 
win  a  lady's  heart,  if  I  am  able,  without  being 
called  on  to  address  a' whole  family;  for  which  I 
never  expect  to  Jaave  the  taste.  Provided  I  am 
loyal  to  the  lady,  I  do  not  consider  that  I  have  any 
particular  duties  toward  them  until  I  have  won 
her  heart.  Then  I  shall  always  ask  permission, 
and  not  before.  Besides,  I  grew  so  gradually  to 
love  your  niece  that  I  could  hardly  say  when  it 
began,  nor  ask  you  to  allow  addresses  of  which  for 
a  long  time  I  was  hardly  conscious." 

"  If  your  reasoning  convinces  you,  very  good. 


64  Two  Men  at  Cross  Purposes. 

I  do  not  discuss  the  point.  I  give  you  another. 
Do  you  think  it  quite  modest  for  a  poor  parson 
like  you  to  aspire  to  the  hand  of  a  De  Vere  ?  " 

"I  am  a  gentleman's  son,  sir,  and  have  good 
blood  in  my  veins.  I  confess,  since  your  courtesy 
reminds  rne  of  it,  that  I  am  not  rich." 

"  And,  being  poor,  it  is  a  part  of  a  parson's  wis- 
dom, which  is  not  of  this  world,  to  wed  a  woman 
because  she  is  rich  ?" 

The  young  man's  face  burned  with  the  taunt, 
but  he  simply  answered,  "  I  am  a  clergyman,  sir  ; 
and  cannot  reply  to  that  as  other  men  might. 
Allow  me  to  remind  you  that  women  and  clergy- 
men are,  in  your  code,  never  insulted,  because  they 
cannot  defend  themselves." 

"  Very  good,  young  man  ;  if  you  have  finished 
we  will  close  this  interview." 

"  I  have  then  only  one  request  to  make  of  you. 
I  have  known  and  loved  your  niece  for  years,  and 
now  you  order  me  to  give  her  up  ;  and  you  are 
taking  her  to  the  Continent.  It  is  but  natural  that 
I  should  desire  to  take  some  leave  of  her.  I  ask 
you,  as  one  man  may  ask  another,  as  a  younger 
may  an  elder,  to  show  me  this  mercy  at  least, 
to  see  her  once  more,  if  only  a  moment,  and  in 
your  presence." 

There  was  no  answer.  "  Will  you  grant  me, 
Sir  Chauncey  De  Vere,  that  favor  ?  '' 

"  I  answer  you,  No." 


Two  Men  at  Cross  Purposes.  65 

And  then  the  hot  blood  of  the  Ardennes,  his 
blood  who  had  died  in  the  Spanish  vineyards, 
throbbed  in  the  young  man's  heart,  and  the  tiger 
which  is  in  all  such  men  gathered  himself  up  to 
spring  upon  his  victim,  and  for  a  moment  he  felt 
that  to  see  Helen  De  Vere  again  he  would  eat 
with  his  teeth  through  the  living  flesh  of  the  man 
before  him  his  way  to  her ;  that  he  would  watch, 
climb,  break,  crush  his  way  over  every  bar  or  wall 
built  between  his  life  and  hers.  Only  a  moment, 
and  the  Christian  man  conquered  and  his  heart 
was  still. 

He  bowed  to  the  man  by  the  mantel  and  went 
out  in  silence. 

Sir  Chauncey  rung  for  the  butler. 

"See  that  the  trunks  are  brought  home  for 
packing,"  was  what  he  said. 

Frederic  Ardenne  went  down  the  hall  stairs 
with  a  proud  and  steady  step.  He  was  a  strong 
man,  and  his  will  was  master.  He  was  ready  to 
help  himself,  God  willing,  against  the  world.  He 
walked  into  the  Archdeacon's  library.  There 
was  something  in  the  step  that  moved  that  digni- 
tary to  look  up.  There  was  a  clear  gleam  in  the 
young  man's  eye  and  a  tremulous  compression  of 
the  thin  lips  not  usual  to  his  nephew,  the  Arch- 
deacon thought. 

"  Why,  Fred,  what  has  happened  ? " 

"I  wish  to  tell  you,  Uncle,"     And  he  told  his 


66  Two  Men  at  Cross  Purposes. 

story  through  —  told  it  with  his  eyes  looking  into 
his  uncle's  as  two  honest  men  that  trust  each 
other  speak  or  listen  sometimes. 

The  Archdeacon  heard  him  through.  Then  he 
said  :  "  You  expect  me  to  advise  and  give  you 
sympathy.  I  will  do  both."  And  he  put  his 
honest  hands  on  Frederic's  shoulders.  "I  know 
Sir  Chauncey  De  Vere  all  my  days.  He  is  a  bad 
man,  with  a  worse  will.  You  cannot  help  yourself 
at  present.  You  must  submit.  Does  his  niece 
love  you  ?  " 

"  She  has  never  told  me  that ;  I  think  it." 

"  Well,  if  she  loves  you  and  is  a  woman,  she  will 
keep  to  you.  If  she  does  not  love  you,  well  ; 
if  she  loves  you  but  is  not  a  woman  she  will  forget 
you,  and  then  so  much  the  better  that  you  are  quit 
of  her." 

"But  what  am  I  to  do,  Uncle  ?" 

"  Do  !  Why,  wait,  like  a  man.  You  distress 
me,  Fred,  with  your  misery." 

"  Well,  I  am  miserable." 

"  Then  I  will  shock  you  to  do  you  good.  Wait 
for  what  turns  up.  I  tell  you  a  story.  There 
was  once  a  king  in  the  East  who  had  a  favorite 
donkey  which  he  desired  should  be  taught  to  read. 
And  he  gave  word  in  all  his  realm  that  any  man 
•who  would  teach  the  brute  in  ten  years  to  read 
should  have  a  bag  of  gold,  but  if  he  failed  should 
lose  his  head.  A  certain  famous  philosopher 
undertook  the  job  ;  and  when  his  friends  remon- 


Two  Men  at  Cross  Purposes.  67 

strated  with  him  upon  his  danger  he  answered, 
'  My  friends,  I  have  three  chances  in  my  favor : 
the  king  may  die,  or  I  may  die,  or  the  donkey 
may  die.'  Remember  the  donkey,  Fred." 

"  It  is  unkind  in  you,  Uncle,  to  laugh  at  me." 

"  No,  Fred,  I  do  not  laugh  at  you.  I  only  shock 
you  into  forgetting  for  a  moment  your  misery. 
You  are  a  priest.  You  know  the  law.  In  what- 
soever path  God  orders  you  to  walk,  you  must 
walk  to  the  end,  as  He  wills." 

"  That  is  very  true,"  the  young  man  said. 

Let  the  reader  go  back  a  moment  to  the  society 
of  that  true  gentleman,  Sir  Chauncey  De  Vere. 
It  is  wise  to  go  there,  for  we  shall  learn  a  lesson. 
In  order  to  learn  that  lesson  we  will  look  into  his 
heart  a  little  after  Frederic  Ardenne  has  taken 
leave. 

"  I  hate  all  priests  and  the  Ardennes,"  he  says 
in  his  stately  library.  "  I  hate  the  priests  because 
they  are  always  babbling  about  something  which  I 
do  not  wish  to  hear.  I  hate  the  Ardennes  because 
of  one  —  this  man's  father.  Years  ago  and  he 
won  a  woman,  who  should  have  been  my  wife, 
away  from  me  —  this  man's  mother.  Years  ago  and 
it  might  have  been  different  with  me;  but  now  I 
shall  play  the  farce  to  the  end.  I  hurt  the  boy 
to-day,  though,  and  that  score  is  off."  Sir  Chaun- 
cey De  Vere  !  What  a  right  knightly  gentleman 
is  he.  What  a  fit  comrade  for  the  angels  and  the 
pure  in  heart  who  forgive  and  are  forgiven ! 


CHAPTER    VII. 

ST.  JOHN'S. 

WEDNESDAY  was  but  one  day  off,  and  Frederic 
Ardenne  had  taken  no  leave  of  Helen  De  Vere. 
That  act  was  difficult.  He  had  planned  a  hundred 
ways,  and  upon  deliberation  all  were  laid  aside  as 
useless.  Yet  see  her  he  would,  even  if  he  had  to 
leave  England  for  it,  and  become  the  shadow  of 
Sir  Chauncey's  exodus.  Not  to  see  her  and  to 
tell  her,  after  what  had  happened,  in  a  single 
phrase  if  needs  be,  that  he  loved  her  and  could  not 
change  to  her, —  that  thought  was  agony.  He 
waited  to  follow  circumstance.  They  who  can 
afford  to  wait  in  this  life  often  win. 

The  Archdeacon  was  his  angel  of  good  tidings. 
"  Now,  Fred ! "  that  dignitary  said  as  he  walked 
with  more  than  his  usual  alacrity  into  his  nephew's 
room.  "  I  told  you  to  wait  for  something  to  turn 
up,  and  here  it  is.  I  have  just  met  Miss  Helen  in 
the  Close,  and  she  tells  me  she  is  going  once  more 
to  Evening  Prayer  at  St.  John's  outside  the 
walls.  There  will  not  be  a  large  congregation,  and 
if  you  wish  it  you  can  manage  to  meet  her  after 
service." 


St.  John's.  69 

"  Thank  you,  Uncle,"  and  the  young  man  took 
his  hat  and  went  out. 

"  He  has  the  Ardenne  blood,"  the  Archdeacon 
said  to  himself,  "and  if  he  were  not  a  priest  it 
would  ill  fare  with  the  man  who  crossed  his  path." 

It  was  a  curious  fact  with  all  the  Ardennes  that 
when  roused  in  controversy  the  military  blood  in 
them  showed  itself  at  once  in  military  manners  ; 
and  Frederic  Ardenne,  as  he  walked  on  to  St. 
John's  with  his  firm,  eager  step  had  about  him  in 
face  and  eye  the  manner  of  a  soldier,  with  whom 
it  would  not  be  pleasant  meddling.  He  was  only 
fighting  his  way  against  fate  to  the  one  word  he 
had  vowed  to  speak  with  Helen  De  Vere. 

St.  John's  lies  outside  Chester  walls,  among 
graves,  and  is  very  old.  A  church  of  some  sort  has 
stood  there  almost  from  the  time  when  tidings  of  the 
Cross  was  first  heard  in  Britain.  Before  Edward 
and  Henry,  matins  and  evensong  had  been  sung 
within  its  walls,  and  now  when  all  the  kings  and 
queens  of  the  Plantagenet  and  Tudor  lines  were 
in  their  graves,  the  song  of  praise  and  prayer  went 
on  as  ever.  St  John's  itself  was  a  Norman  pile  of 
the  red  sandstone  found  hereabouts,  but  the  very 
stone  was  crumbled  with  age.  Time  had  thrown 
down  its  statues  of  the  saints,  so  that  only  one, 
a  Saxon  king's,  they  say,  remained,  and  that  stood 
far  up  on  the  front  face  of  the  square  tower,  look- 
ing from  under  its  stone  crown  at  those  Welsh 


70  St.  Johns. 

hills  in  the  west  that  seemed  hardly  so  old  as  the 
church  itself.  Parts  of  the  edifice,  where  the 
monks  had  dwelt,  had  fallen  in  ruins,  and  trees 
grew  where  cowled  men  had  once  eaten  or  slept. 
In  the  part  still  standing  was  the  service.  And 
there,  over  the  graves  of  the  dead,  whose  epitaphs 
of  brass,  inlaid  in  the  broad  stones  of  the  pavement, 
were  worn  bright  by  the  feet  of  the  living,  and 
with  monuments  of  dead  knights  and  priests  and 
burghers  round  them,  and  the  gray  dust  of  the 
generations  everywhere,  under  the  low-bowed  but 
mighty  Norman  arches,  a  worship  that  never  dies 
was  going  on. 

Frederic  went  in  under  the  low  archway  of  its 
side  door  to  the  service.  He  was  late  indeed,  for 
priest  and  people  were  saying  again  the  Apostles' 
Creed,  the  symbol  of  that  Faith  which,  under  all 
skies,  the  Church  confesses.  By  the  side  of  one  of 
the  heavy  and  shadowy  arches,  among  the  sparse 
congregation,  he  recognized  Helen's  form,  and  even 
imagined  he  heard  her  voice  in  the  Creed.  When 
Prayers  were  ended  he  waited  for  her  outside. 
She  came  out  among  the  last,  a  child,  almost, 
under  the  old  archway.  Her  face  lighted  up  when 
she  saw  him  with  a  glad  surprise. 

"How  came  you  here,  sir?" 

"  I  came  to  see  you,  my  child." 

"  I  am  very  glad  you  came." 

"  Walk  with  me,  then,"  and  she  went  on  with 


St.  John's.  71 

him  without  asking  where  or  why.  It  sufficed  her 
that  for  this  one  moment,  sacred  to  her  heart  out 
of  an  unknown  and  dreaded  future,  she  was  with 
him. 

"  The  good  God  sent  you  here,"  he  said,  after 
awhile.  "  To-morrow  is  Wednesday,  and  I  was 
afraid  you  would  leave  England  before  I  had  a 
chance  to  speak  one  word  to  you  of  the  many  I 
wish  to  say." 

"  God  is  very  good,  sir,  but  I  always  come  to  St. 
John's  in  Easter  week,  because  they  say  this  was 
my  poor  mother's  parish  church,  and  the  pew 
where  I  sat  to-night  was  hers,  Miss  Hannah  tells 
me,  and  in  that  church  I  always  feel  as  if  my 
mother  was  nearer  to  me  than  anywhere  else. 
When  I  am  troubled  I  always  turn  to  her.  They 
say  I  should  turn  to  God.  But  my  mother  is 
with  Him  and  I  pray  to  both.  I  could  not  leave 
England  without  coming  here  once  more." 

Frederic  led  her  along  the  path  that  ran  among 
the  graves  till  they  came  to  the  middle  of  the  yard, 
which  lies  northward  from  St.  John's.  "  Sit  down 
upon  this  stone,"  he  said,  pointing  to  the  broad 
mossy  tablet  that  covered  one  of  the  many  sleepers 
hereabouts.  "  I  want  to  say  some  things  to  you, 
my  child."  So  they  both  sat  down  on  a  grave.  It 
might  seem  a  strange  place  and  time  to  which 
Fate  or  Providence  had  brought  these  lovers  to 
say  last  words.  It  had  been  sunset  some  time  now, 


72  St.  John's. 

and  the  gray  mist  on  the  distant  hills  had  deepened 
to  the  night  shadows,  while  the  smoky  twilight  fell 
down  upon  the  ancient  houses  of  the  town.  Was  it 
a  prophecy  of  the  night  that  was  henceforth  to  fol- 
low the  one  Spring  day  of  their  love,  now  ending  ? 
Things  before  them  and  around  had  perished. 
Why  should  not  their  love  waste  too  ?  The  whole 
earth  had  changed  since  St.  John's  was  built. 
The  Saxon  king,  high  up  in  the  bell  tower,  now 
looked  down  on  strangers ;  and  they  who  did  him 
reverence  when  he  first  was  throned  were  all  gone. 
Why  should  they  not  change,  and  in  due  time 
grow  strange  ?  And  the  king  in  the  tower  could 
not  answer  them,  nor  the  stars  that  began  to  look 
down  from  their  thrones  upon  the  lovers ;  but 
their  hearts  answered  to  themselves,  that  what  is 
truly  love  in  man  or  woman  does  not  change  nor 
fail. 

"Did  you  know  I  had  been  with  Sir  Chaun- 
cey  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  imagined  as  much.  I  hope  there  was  nothing 
very  unpleasant  between  you." 

"  It  was  as  pleasant  as  Sir  Chauncey  would  be 
likely  to  make  it.  But  I  have  nothing  to  do  with 
him  except  as  he  concerns  you.  You  and  I  both 
know  he  has  come  between  us,  and  it  is  a  time 
that  asks  plain  words.  I  have  been  frank  with 
you  in  my  acts.  I  will  be  equally  frank  in  what 
I  say.  You  know,  or  I  hope  you  know,  that  I  have 


St.  John's.  73 

loved  you  for  a  long  time.  I  loved  you  when  you 
were  a  child.  I  loved  you  as  I  saw  you  grow  up. 
I  love  you  now  you  are  a  woman  ;  and  I  love  you 
now  more  than  ever,  when  your  uncle  breaks  in 
so  bitterly  against  my  heart.  I  shall  never  cease 
to  love  you.  I  did  not  mean  to  say  this  to  you 
until  I  had  won  my  place,  and  could  offer  you 
something  that  a  man  wishes  for  one  he  would 
make  his  wife — an  honorable  place  and  name. 
My  career  has  just  begun,  and  I  am  forced  to 
speak.  I  do  not  offer  you  my  love.  I  only  tell 
you  I  gave  it  to  you  long  ago.  Tell  me  now,  will 
you  come  to  me  and  be  my  wife  ?  " 

There  was  no  answer,  but  a  little  hand  was  laid 
very  gently  -in  his. 

"  Speak  to  me,  my  child." 

"  What  more  can  I  say  to  you  than  I  am  say- 
ing now  ?  " 

"  Tell  me  that  you  love  me." 

"  I  love  you,  Frederic  Ardenne." 

"  Look  me  now  in  the  eyes  and  say  that  again, 
please." 

"  I  love  you,  Frederic  Ardenne."  And  then  his 
strong  hand  closed  gently  over  the  one  in  his. 

"  Say  now,  I  will  never  change  to  you." 

"I  will  never  change  to  you." 

"  And  in  this  world  and  the  next  I  will  be  true 
to  you." 


74  St.  John's. 

"  In  this  world  and  the  next  I  will  be  true  to 
you." 

"  This  was  my  mother's  ring,  my  child,"  he  said, 
"  that  I  have  long  since  kept  for  this,"  and  he  put 
it  upon  her  marriage  finger.  "  Now  take  your 
marriage  finger  and  with  it  sign  on  my  hand  here 
the  sign  of  the  Cross."  And  he  held  his  open 
right  hand  for  her. 

She  did  it. 

"  Now,  Helen,  you  have  signed  that  hand  to 
you.  You  have  signed  it  away  from  dishonor,  and 
devoted  it  to  good  deeds.  For  your  sake,  as  well 
as  His  sake  who  gave  you  to  me,  I  will  try  to  keep 
it  a  man's  hand." 

"  So  now  you  belong  to  me,  my  child,"  he  con- 
tinued. 

"  I  belong  to  you,  sir." 

"  Now  I  can  trust  you  with  Sir  Chauncey  to  go 
to  Paris?"  he  said,  half-smiling. 

"  Is  it  right,  sir,  for  you  to  ask  me  that  now  after 
what  has  been  ?  " 

"  No,  Helen.  Men  are  selfish ;  and  they  fear  for 
that  which  they  most  desire.  I  do  trust  you,  as  I 
would  only  trust  God  beside." 

"  You  may  trust  me." 

"  But  Helen,  you  go  away  from  me  to-morrow, 
you  know  not  where." 

"  Does  that  matter  to  my  love  ?  " 


St.  Johns.  75 

"And  it  may  be  months  or  years  before  we 
meet  again.  Sir  Chauncey  may  be  cruel  as  he  is 
certainly  wilful,  and  he  has  it  in  his  power  to  do 
mischief." 

"  I  will  wait  patiently  for  you,  so  long  as  God 
wills." 

"And  obey  Sir  Chauncey  ?  " 

"  So  far  as  I  owe  him  the  obedience  of  a  ward. 
But  this  one  thing,  Frederic,"  and  her  voice  fal- 
tered as  for  the  first  and  last  time  in  this  interview 
she  uttered  that  name  which  sounded  so  strangely 
upon  her  lips,  "I  have  promised  my  own  heart 
(and  I  know  God  heard  it)  that,  whether  it  be 
months  or  years,  as  He  may  order,  I  will  hold  true 
to  you,  and  will  be  your  wife." 

"  My  dear  little  wife." 

And  then  he  put  his  arms  about  her,  and  kissed 
the  white  forehead  again  and  again.  After  they 
went  home  together,  and  the  future  was  with  God. 

Frederic  left  her  at  her  door. 

"  Pax  tecum,"  he  said. 

"  Et  cum  spiritu  tuo,"  was  the  answer,  and  she 
went  in. 

"  Who  brought  you  home  to-night,  Helen  ?  " 
Sir  Chauncey  asked,  when  she  passed  by  the 
library. 

"  Mr.  Ardenne." 

Miss    Hannah    wondered   at   Helen's    courage. 


76  St.  John's. 

Sir  Chauncey  thought  of  the  trunks.  Each  man 
to  his  mission.  That  night  the  destiny  of  a  heart 
had  passed  out  forever  from  beneath  the  rule  of 
Sir  Chauncey  De  Vere,  and  when  it  said  its  pray- 
ers, it  bowed  itself  submissively  to  God.  And  He 
is  wont  to  keep  a  trust. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

STRASBOURG    MINSTER. 

THE  De  Veres  went  to  Paris,  and  in  its  clean 
and  delicate  festivities  Sir  Chauncey  found  his 
Paradise.  Frederic  Ardeune  stood  to  his  duty. 
He  absorbed  himself  in  studies,  but  somehow  a 
memory  wrote  itself  on  every  page  he  read,  and 
when  the  book  was  shut  a  woman  stood  by  the 
tired  student  until  his  study  grew  to  a  palace ; 
only  the  queen  of  it  was  of  intangible  substance 
and  altogether  silent.  Chester  itself  had  changed 
to  him.  The  very  town  seemed  heartless.  The 
shadows  upon  the  cathedral  had  grown  older. 
Helen  had  carried  away  the  sunshine  with  her,  and 
he  felt  it.  It  is  only  when  the  sun  goes  down 
that  we  so  sorely  miss  the  sunshine.  Yet  he 
wrought  as  he  best  could. 

It  was  news  of  Helen's  sickness  that  broke  down 
his  resolution.  It  came  to  him  in  some  indirect 
rumor  that  she  was  lying  at  the  very  gate  of  the 
grave  in  Paris.  A  servant  of  Sir  Chauncey's  had 
written  it  to  his  sweetheart  in  the  Close,  and  the 
tidings  found  their  slow  way  to  him.  It  shut  the 
books,  and  then  it  drove  him  in  a  swift  feverish 


78  Strasbourg  Minster. 

flight  across  the  Channel.  At  Sir  Chauncey's  hotel 
he  inquired  for  news.  "  The  young  English  lady," 
they  said,  "  had  been  very  sick  some  two  months 
back  and  had  been  ordered  by  her  physician,  on 
her  convalescence,  to  Switzerland  for  mountain 
air.  They  knew  nothing  more.  That  night  he 
went  towards  the  Alps.  Once  or  twice  in  his  im- 
patient and  heart-sick  journey  he  found  traces  of 
the  travellers.  He  heard  of  Sir  Chauncey  among 
the  servants  of  the  inns.  Had  Sir  Chauncey's 
oaths  been  pencils  he  would  have  left  in  his  wan- 
derings very  black  marks  upon  most  of  them.  He 
tracked  them  through  the  Oberland.  "  A  very 
delicate  and  pale  young  English  lady,  with  her 
uncle  and  aunt,"  the  landlord  said,  "  in  search  of 
health ; "  and  that  was  the  only  consolation  they 
flung  in  their  busy  carelessness  to  a  heart  that 
ached.  At  Interlaken  he  found  something  plain. 
"The  trunks  had  been  marked,"  they  said,  "for 
Strasbourg,"  and  Sir  Chauncey  had  vouchsafed  the 
host  the  information  that  he  meant  to  solace  him- 
self for  all  his  fatigues  with  the  pdtes  defois  gras 
of  that  gourmandizing  but  sleepy  city.  So  Fred- 
eric turned  again  to  the  Rhine. 

The  morning  after  his  arrival,  at  breakfast  in  his 
inn,  his  courier  brought  him  good  news.  "The 
English  gentleman  had  taken  apartments  in  the 
chief  hotel,  for  a  three  months'  stay,  and  had  been 
settled  there  some  two  weeks."  It  was  true,  then, 


Strasbourg  Minster.  79 

that  the  same  walls  enclosed  them  both,  and  Helen 
was  out  of  danger.  But  now  the  real  danger 
began,  and  his  more  sober  mind  reflected. 

Had  not  they  two  left  all  to  God,  and  was  not 
his  journey  here  faithless  after  all  ? 

And  love  and  reason  strove  together.  What  if 
he  went  to  Helen?  What  had  he  to  say  to  her, 
who  had  left  him  in  England  to  stand  to  his  work 
and  his  love  through  his  wrork  ?  If  he  forced  him- 
self into  her  presence,  Sir  Chauncey  might  bid  her 
to  the  ends  of  the  earth,  and  she  must  go.  And 
yet  he  would  not  go  out  through  Strasbourg  gates 
without  looking  upon  the  pale  face  again.  So  he 
waited  his  opportunity  at  his  inn. 

It  may  be  easily  imagined  that  Frederic  Ar- 
denne  wished  to  miss  no  chance  of  meeting  Helen. 
But  in  the  fortnight  that  elapsed  before  he  saw 
her  he  had  almost  ceased  to  hope.  It  was  an  in- 
stinct therefore  which  told  him,  when  at  breakfast 
he  heard  there  was  to  be  a  special  service  that 
evening  in  the  Cathedral,  that  he  should  some- 
how meet  her  there.  It  was  therefore  with  a 
throbbing  heart  that  he  stationed  himself,  in  the 
twilight,  under  the  great  archway,  and  watched 
the  multitude  going  in.  The  service,  the  gray- 
haired  verger  told  him,  was  in  behalf  of  a  dead 
alderman  who  had  left  great  charities  to  the  Stras- 
bourg parishes.  Frederic  watched  the  faces  as 
they  came  in  until  his  very  brain  swam  with 


80  Strasbourg  Minster. 

fatigue,  but  yet  one  face  did  not  appear.  Then 
suddenly  a  new  sensation  came  over  him  —  a  sense 
that  somewhere  in  the  crowd  Helen  was  approach- 
ing him,  was  at  hand.  No  —  yes ;  just  now, 
under  the  portal,  a  pale,  worn  face,  that  he 
should  have  known  among  ten  thousand  —  his 
face  —  appeared,  a  company,  apparently  of  English 
men  and  women,  around  her.  He  did  not  move 
—  he  even  held  his  breath  —  he  could  not  move. 
And  she  passed  him  at  not  more  than  an  arm's 
length  and  did  not  see  him !  He  roused  himself 
and  pressed  in  amongst  the  crowd.  Up  the  nave 
slowly,  with  her  in  sight,  he  kept  on.  He  saw 
where  she  knelt  with  the  rest,  and  he  knelt  almost 
beside  her. 

The  service  began.  It  was  Mozart's  Requiem 
which  they  sang ;  and  as  the  music  rose  and  sank, 
trembled  and  sobbed,  and  took  up  again  its  thrill- 
ing litanies  and  its  holy  aspiration,  one  more 
worshipful  than  Frederic  might  have  marked 
again  how  music  kindles  and  lifts  up  aspiration 
unto  God,  who  is  the  soul  of  harmony.  But 
Frederic  saw  only  the  kneeling  form  before  him, 
and  heard  only  the  low  tones  of  an  English  maiden 
bidding  him  adieu  in  the  twilight  of  a  churchyard 
across  seas.  The  service  ended,  but  he  still 
watched  one  form  among  the  multitude,  which  now 
rose  from  its  knees  to  go  away.  Could  he  speak  to 
her  surrounded  by  her  companions?  Impossible. 


Strasbourg  Minster.  81 

And  yet  she  was  almost  touching  him.  It  was  plain 
from  her  movements  that  she  was  talking  to  the 
lady  beside  her  about  the  Minster.  She  seemed 
to  have  stopped  a  moment  by  herself  to  examine 
the  exquisite  sculpture  of  the  pulpit  as  she  came 
by  it.  In  an  instant  her  comrades,  not  missing 
her,  had  swept  on  with  the  crowd,  and  she  was 
quite  alone.  She  turned  from  the  sculpture  a 
moment  after,  and  Frederic  saw  her  start  —  he 
thought  she  trembled  at  missing  her  friends.  His 
time  had  come.  He  whispered  in  her  ear  her 
name.  She  turned  to  him  amazed.  In  an  in- 
stant, with  a  half-reproach  in  her  voice,  she  said, 
"  How  came  you  here,  Frederic  Ardenue  ?  You 
peril  everything  for  both  of  us." 

"  I  heard  you  were  dying  in  Paris,  and  I  could 
not  stay  away.  I  have  followed  you  here  to  see 
your  face  once  more  —  a  moment." 

"  But  was  it  not  agreed  that  you  were  to  stand 
in  your  place  and  trust  me  to  God  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  And  cannot  you  trust  me  to  Him  ?  Your  com- 
ing here  says,  '  No.' ' 

"You  are  ice  to  say  this,"  he  answered  almost 
passionately. 

And  then  she  turned  upon  him  a  face,  silent, 
constant,  the  face  of  an  angel  almost,  and  the  face 
answered  him.  It  was  the  face  of  a  woman, 
young  and  suffering,  but  of  a  woman  whose  soul 


82  Strasbourg  Minster. 

was  overwatched  by  the  twin  angels  of  Love  and 
Duty. 

"  Frederic,"  she  said  then,  "  you  are  too  strong 
to  fail  your  own  heart.  It  is  your  office  to 
wait  for  what  God  sends  you.  First  of  all  you 
belong  to  Him, —  next  to  me.  I  claim  you  out  of 
my  heart  only  when  God  surrenders  you  to  me. 
If  both  our  lives  are  laid  in  God's  hand,  they 
must  always  be  close  together.  I  saw  all  this  when 
I  was  sick  in  Paris  and  you  away  in  England,  and 
I  know  now  what  it  is  to  love  you,  now  that  I  love 
God  more." 

Frederic  Ardenne  said  nothing.  He  held  out 
his  hand.  She  took  it  with  both  her  own. 

"You  must  stay  here,"  he  said,  "until  your 
friends  come  back  for  you,  when  they  miss  you. 
Good  night." 

And  the  young  man  went  away  and  watched 
from  among  the  shadows  of  the  stalwart  pillars 
until  her  friends  came  back  and  she  went  out. 

Then  he  went  home  to  his  inn  with  a  fever  in 
his  very  blood ;  rebuked,  ashamed,  confounded. 
The  child  whom  he  loved  had  spoken ;  most  of  all 
had  spoken  what  was  true  —  what  his  heart  told  him 
was  true.  She  was  bearing  her  cross,  and  he  had 
run  away  from  his  to  Strasbourg.  Then,  alone  in 
his  chamber,  with  his  face  in  his  hands,  he  looked  as 
men  once  or  twice  in  a  lifetime  look  at  themselves. 
He  looked  into  his  innermost  heart  and  judged  it  by 


Strasbourg  Minster.  83 

a  law  of  iron,  and  yet  —  it  remained  a  heart  of  flesh. 
It  was  hours  before  that  silent  reckoning  ended, 
and  then  weary,  patient  once  more,  he  looked 
around  him.  The  unwearied  moonlight  was  at 
his  feet. 

He  threw  open  his  window  and  watched  the 
Minster,  as  in  the  moonlight  across  the  square  it 
rose  in  its  deserted  silence  towards  the  stars. 
Upon  its  high  altar  they  offered  the  daily  Sacrifice  ; 
but  the  structure  itself  was  also  sacrifice.  Into 
that  temple  had  been  wrought  the  prayers  and 
offerings  of  generations.  Its  price  had  been  the 
cups  of  silver  and  gold  out  of  which  kings  had 
drunk ;  the  scarlet  and  purple  and  fine  linen 
which  the  queen  had  denied  her  beauty  for  its 
glory ;  the  timber  from  the  hills  that  the  weary 
peasant,  forgotten  when  scarcely  known,  had  hewn 
and  brought;  a  basket  of  fruit  or  a  hamper  of 
grapes  from  some  woman's  vineyard  —  these  had 
lifted  the  Minster  towards  the  skies.  It  was  the 
children  of  Him  who  had  given  Himself  in  sacri- 
fice who  had  laid  their  little  upon  His  magnificent 
and  sheltering  altar,  inspired  by  that  spirit  of  self- 
surrender  by  which  His  Church  is  garnished  and 
kept. 

Where  was  Erwin  Von  Steinbach,  who  had 
planned  that  pile  ?  Where  was  his  child,  Sabrina, 
who  had  aided  her  father's  hands  with  a  womanly 
skill  and  prowess  not  yet  forgotten?  No  man 


84:  Strasbourg  Minster. 

could  find  their  graves  under  the  shadows  of  the 
temple  they  had  built.  Where,  too,  was  the  twin 
tower  to  that  which  rose  so  loftily,  this  night,  alone  ? 
It  had  perished  with  the  brain  which  planned  it, 
and  even  this  Minster  remained  incomplete.  It 
was  only  a  human  work  which  he  saw. 

He  watched  the  great  spire  in  the  moonshine  — 
on  the  one  side  light,  and  on  the  other  shadow. 
So,  he  thought,  is  all  life  —  light  and  shade  ;  but 
the  shade  is  always  because  the  substances  of  this 
world  hide  from  our  hearts  the  heavenly  light, 
which  in  itself  is  always  full  and  rounded.  On 
how  many  things  had  that  spire  looked  down  since 
it  was  built.  It  had  seen  the  generations  of  a 
thousand  Rhine  villages  play  out  their  play  of  life, 
and  now  it  could  hardly  count  their  graves.  It 
had  overlooked  a  more  solemn  procession  than  the 
silent  river  between  the  hills  flowing  on  to  the 
sea  ;  for  the  river  of  human  life  under  its  ken  was 
vaster  and  more  solemn  than  any  flood.  It  looked 
down  to-night,  as  it  had  for  ages,  upon  the  living 
and  the  dead;  and  so  long  as  it  looked  it  had 
pointed,  whether  there  were  clouds  or  moonlight, 
towards  the  heavens,  as  though  it  would  lift  up 
the  souls  of  the  human  creatures  dwelling  under 
its  shadows  towards  the  skies.  So  it  was  this 
hour  pointing  with  a  cross. 

It  was  then,  as  he  looked  on  Strasbourg  Minster, 
that  the  henceforth  master-thought  of  his  life  rose 


Strasbourg  Minster.  85 

in  his  heart,  as  a  sun  rises  over  chaos  to  mould  it 
into  harmonies.  The  thought  was  this.  The  law 
of  life  is  sacrifice,  but  when  one  lays  his  sacrifice 
upon  the  altar,  the  cross  above  it  pointing  sky- 
wards denotes  the  Invisible  for  whom  true  sacrifice 
alone  is  made.  It  was  his  life  that  Frederic  Ar- 
denne  owed  the  Church,  and  that  sacrifice  would 
reach  beyond  the  stars  and  draw  down  a  blessing 
on  him  who  dwelt  an  hour  or  so  beneath  them. 
And  as  he  looked  out  into  the  moonlight  that 
thought  rose  clear,  musical,  shining,  upon  his  soul, 
possessing  him  and  filling  him  with  peace. 

He  rung  the  bell  for  his  servant.  "  To-morrow," 
he  said,  "  we  start  for  England."  On  the  morrow 
he  went. 


CHAPTER    IX. 

AUBREY   PARISH. 

THE  Rev.  Frederic  Ardenne,  for  some  ten  years, 
had  been  the  rector  of  St.  Clement's,  Aubrey  Parish, 
in  the  American  Diocese  of  Riverland.  To  slur 
over  in  a  single  sentence  ten  years  of  a  man's  life, 
especially  a  lover's,  comes  very  close  to  assassina- 
tion. 

Yet  it  is  the  plain  fact,  so  far  as  this  story  runs. 

When  Frederic  Ardenne  left  Helen  De  Vere  at 
Strasbourg  he  went  back  to  Chester  and  his  duties. 
But  the  blight  in  his  heart  had  smitten  the  place 
with  desolation.  Its  very  comfortable  and  placid 
life  fretted  his  feverish  heart.  To  make  some 
great  sacrifice  of  himself,  for  duty, —  to  become  a 
beggar  and  on  foot  in  the  lanes  and  fields  of 
England  preaching  Christ  to  the  brutal  and  the 
outcast,  as  the  ancient  priests  had  done ;  to  wit- 
ness to  the  Faith  and  die  gladly  for  it,  as  the  old 
martyrs  had ;  to  make  an  utter  sacrifice  of  all  for 
Him  who  saves  all  by  His  perpetual  sacrifice  —  was 
easy ;  but  to  exist  where  and  as  he  was  —  im- 
possible. He  had  heard  that  missionaries  were 
wanted  in  the  Canadas.  The  wilderness  there 


Aubrey  Parish.  87 

might  satisfy  his  heart  as  ease  and  comfort  never 
would.  His  swift  decision  his  uncle,  the  Arch- 
deacon, found  no  words  to  alter.  Armed  with 
letters  missive,  he  went  out  to  that  colony.  On 
the  frontiers,  among  Indians  and  backwoodsmen, 
in  a  cabin  that  was  both  his  church  and  home,  he 
had  spent  five  rugged  and  solitary  years  of  clerical 
toil.  It  is  not  necessary  to  tell  their  story.  Among 
the  forests,  by  the  finger  of  God,  it  had  been 
rewritten  upon  his  heart  as  his  rule  of  life,  "  As 
God  wills,  when  God  wills ;  "  and  he  obeyed.  It 
was  here  that,  worn  out  with  work,  he  had  been 
found  by  his  Bishop,  on  the  latter's  visitation,  un- 
conscious and  nigh  to  death,  but  tenderly  nursed 
by  the  rough  folk  he  served.  In  due  time  the 
Bishop  had  him  removed  to  his  own  house,  where 
he  slowly  came  back  to  health.  Then  the  physi- 
cians said  that  to  return  to  the  wild  was  certain 
death ;  and  against  his  wish,  but  as  God  willed, 
his  sacrifice  was  to  be  made  elsewhere.  The 
Bishop  of  Riverland,  on  his  summer  travels  through 
these  parts,  had  heard  of  him,  and  at  once  offered 
him  a  place  in  his  diocese.  Thus  he  came  to 
Aubrey  Parish,  where  he  had  now  been  rector 
for  some  five  years  more. 

Aubrey  Parish  is  a  realm  between  two  rivers, 
which  here  gather  their  waters  into  one.  Every 
one  likes  the  rivers,  and  some  the  people  who  live 
between  them.  The  parish  begins  at  the  north 


88  Aubrey  Parish. 

where  at  a  very  unsocial  distance  these  rivers 
break  from  the  wooded  hills  which  for  a  long  way 
have  kept  them  company.  It  ends  where  they 
join,  and  lies  in  the  shape  of  a  triangle,  with  its 
apex  to  the  south.  Across  these  rivers  from  the 
parish  are  farmhouses,  orchards,  patches  of  wood- 
land and  hills  everywhere  bounding  the  horizon, 
while  scattered  along  their  banks,  among  the  oaks, 
the  white  houses  look  down  by  day  into  the  rest- 
less flood  and  at  night  cast  the  slender  ray  of 
their  lamps  upon  its  darkness. 

Time  and  progress  have  divided  the  parish  into 
two  villages.  Old  Town,  as  its  name  denotes,  was 
settled  first,  and  occupies  by  far  the  larger  part  of 
the  parish.  Factory  Village,  with  its  workshops, 
built  on  and  under  the  bluff,  where  the  rivers  join, 
lays  claim  to  what  land  is  left.  Old  Town  is  full 
of  dignity  and  sleep,  and  monopolizes  all  the 
antiquity  and  family  of  that  locality.  It  quietly 
claims  a  respectability  so  eminent  as  to  forbid 
denial. 

But  from  'its  broad  square  houses  under  the 
elms,  around  its  Common,  many  young  men  had 
gone  and  gained  place  in  the  great  world,  until 
the  fame  of  Aubrey  men  had  become  an  heirloom 
to  those  who  stayed  at  home.  Here  were  the 
churches  and  meeting-houses,  and  just  off  the 
Common  the  graveyard,  where  Aubrey  folk  were 
brought,  when  work  was  done,  to  sleep  so  long. 


Aubrey  Parish.  89 

Factory  Village  owned  to  a  very  different  strain 
and  spirit.  It  had  been  begun  as  a  venture  not 
more  than  thirty  years  before,  by  a  dyke  that 
turned  the  river  over  a  half  dozen  milhvheels, 
and  hence  had  sprung  all  the  thrift  of  the  borough. 
Its  loud-voiced  and  thrifty  citizens  seemed  to 
absorb  their  habits  from  their  loud-voiced  and  busy 
machineries,  which  all  day  long  in  monotonous 
and  dreary  drone,  as  unwilling  slaves  of  masters 
whom  they  feared  but  served,  kept  coining  gold 
for  them,  and  at  night  were  suffered  to  sleep 
in  the  great  factories  that  they  might  sweat  and 
slave  with  the  same  reluctant  spirit  on  the  morrow. 
The  mill-owners  were  those  progressive  men,  with 
a  strong  scent  for  money,  who  would  undertake  to 
make  charcoal  out  of  river  water,  had  there  been 
money  in  it,  or  shares  in  a  company  for  mining 
diamonds  out  of  Aubrey  meadows,  had  the  market 
tolerated  such  a  novel  venture.  Some  men 
thought  them  sordid  and  grasping ;  but  in  youth 
their  wits  had  been  sharpened  by  their  wants,  until 
they  only  hungered  after  money,  and  in  middle  age 
they  were  able  to  crave  nothing  else.  The  artisans 
of  the  village  were  a  polyglot  company,  native 
and  foreign,  who  just  here  wrought  out  the  problem 
of  the  curse  of  work,  ever  asking,  but  never 
answering,  their  own  question,  why  they  were 
born  to  toil. 

Old  Town  folk  heartily  despised  the  Factory  as 


90  Aubrey  Parish. 

something  new  and  extremely  vulgar.  Its  demo- 
cratic and  noisy  industries  shocked  their  sleepy 
stateliness,  and  by  instinct  they  quarrelled  with 
the  iron  hands  that  coined  gold  for  others  in 
that  competition  which  went  on  between  them. 
They  had  always  the  intent  to  grow  rich,  like 
their  neighbors,  but  somehow  a  sad,  inexorable 
necessity  or  laziness  or  something  else  seemed  to 
keep  them  always  where  they  were.  From  the 
foot  of  the  Hill  of  Gold  they  looked  up  to  their 
neighbors  far  above  them  to  revile  them  in  their 
hearts.  Very  little  of  all  this,  for  a  casual  ob- 
server, came  to  the  surface,  but  underneath  it  was 
as  has  been  writ.  When  a  Factory  man,  for  in- 
stance, took  out  his  family  in  his  new  double- 
seated  carriage  through  Old  Town,  the  gossips 
who  sat  by  the  open  windows  knitting,  and  did 
not  even  own  a  chaise,  drew  their  white  caps  more 
primly  about  their  wrinkled  faces,  as  they  re- 
lated out  of  what  hole  he  and  his  had  been  digged. 
The  young  ladies  of  Old  Town,  too,  assumed  a 
patronizing  air  when  they  met  their  sisters  of 
Factory  pedigree,  though  the  latter,  as  better 
dressed,  refused  to  do  them  honor.  In  fine,  every- 
thing about  the  factory  but  its  bank  checks  was  at  a 
discount  among  the  folks  who  lived  around  Aubrey 
Common  and  nursed  their  somnolent  pride  of 
family  just  as  if  the  very  stars  did  not  show  a 
much  older  and  more  courtly  lineage  than  theirs, 


Aubrey  Parish.  91 

and  yet  every  night  looked  clown  upon  the 
Factory  folk  as  benignly  as  ever  star  looked  upon 
prince  or  prelate  or  any  other  high  breds  like  those 
in  Old  Town. 

The  religions  of  Aubrey  Parish  were  almost  as 
diverse  as  its  mills,  and  religion  in  Turk  or  any 
other  Gentile  is  a  fountain  to  color  and  flavor 
human  life.  All  the  country  hereabout  in  Colonial 
times  had  been  settled  by  Puritans,  who  lived  out 
their  faith  with  a  very  logical  exactness  and  in 
unity  of  spirit.  But  the  elders  were  long  since  dead, 
and  new  times  had  brought  in  novelties  to  their 
meeting-house,  strange  enough  almost  to  make  them 
turn  in  their  graves.  The  Bible  had  been  read 
each  man  for  himself,  and  so  many  things  had  been 
read  into  it  and  out  of  it,  that  now  hardly  two  were 
quite  agreed  in  their  private  judgment  as  to  what 
these  things  meant.  So  there  had  come  to  be  half 
a  dozen  congregations,  and  in  the  pulpits  of  the 
more  ardent  spirits,  those  thundering  preachers, 
whose  mission  was,  as  it  looked,  to  wake  God  out 
of  sleep  and  to  wrest  from  Him  a  blessing.  In- 
deed, so  incessant  had  been  these  changes  that  the 
evil-minded  were  wont  to  say  that  the  cock  upon 
the  steeple,  which  was  forever  veering  in  the  wind, 
whose  prototype  once  spake  to  Peter,  was  a  sym- 
bol of  that  denial  of  their  Lord  which  was  now 
going  on. 

St.  Clement's,  which  stood  among  the  meeting- 


92  Aubrey   Parish. 

houses  on  the  green,  had  existed  at  first  by  the  not 
over-gracious  permission  of  its  powerful  neighbors, 
who  thought  it  a  very  inn  of  evil  spirits,  and  a 
place  where  forbidden  rites  affronted  the  simplicity 
of  true  religion.  Truth  to  say,  it  was  farther  away 
from  them  than  any  town  common  in  the  world 
could  possibly  separate  it.  In  St.  Clement's  every- 
thing was  old  and  fixed.  It  had  a  certain  solem- 
nity and  peace  about  it  as  of  the  dead  and  graves 
(for  its  worship  had  been  handed  down  by  gener- 
ations who  had  gone),  and  derived  itself  from  a 
broken  tomb  which  was  very  old.  Yet  every  Sun- 
day its  chanted  psalms  and  litanies,  through  which 
ran,  as  it  were,  the  cry  of  the  human  for  rest  and 
peace,  uplifted  the  soul  towards  a  coming  future, 
where  were  no  graves,  and  all  apostles  and  confes- 
sors lived  again.  This  it  was  that  provoked  not  a 
few  to  call  its  worship  stupid  or  bigoted  or  queer, 
as  the  measure  of  their  ignorance  advised  them. 
If  a  true  Puritan  strayed  in  through  the  porch  to 
its  service,  he  either  wondered  and  then  slept 
through  it,  or  went  away  surprised  that  sensible 
folk  could  relish  anything  so  dull.  The  reason  for 
all  this  was  that  St.  Clement's  worship  had  long 
ago  taken  good  care  to  perpetuate  itself  as  it  was 
and  had  been  for  all  generations.  Eternity,  even 
in  worship,  has,  no  doubt,  a  certain  monotony  about 
it,  but  a  variety  which  is  forever  changing  can  only 
be  for  time.  Its  neighbors  were  always  making 


Aubrey  Parish.  93 

themselves  a  new  ark  to  contain  the  shewbread 
and  the  sacred  relics,  and  therefore  the  symbolic 
angels  that  rested  upon  its  lid  must  be  often 
changed.  But  St.  Clement's  people,  as  they 
thought,  carried  that  ancient  ark  whose  pattern 
once  for  all  had  been  revealed  to  men  in  the  Mount. 
St.  Clement's  church  itself  was  built  of  gray 
stone  and  set  in  a  rock  ledge,  which  just  here  thrust 
its  head  above  ground,  and  was  thus,  as  its  friends 
said,  twice  founded  upon  a  rock.  St.  Clement's 
rectory,  a  little  gray,  rambling  house,  stood  under 
its  mingled  elms  and  maples  hard  by  the  church. 
The  rectors  who  had  lived  in  it  had  each  adorned 
it  with  their  special  handicraft  and  taste.  One 
had  been  a  clever  mechanician,  and  had  curiously 
contrived  a  score  of  things  for  that  home's  perpet- 
ual comfort.  Another  had  been  an  astronomer, 
and  the  hole  he  cut  in  the  roof  to  look  at  the  heav- 
ens was  left  long  after  he  had  gone  where  the 
stars  are  never  pale.  Others  had  been  deft  scribes 
and  written  down  among  the  births  and  deaths  and 
marriages  many  strange  things  of  life  in  Aubrey 
Parish  as  they  had  seen  them,  so  that  the  Parish 
Register  had  come  to  have  more  tragedy,  if  not 
comedy,  than  almost  any  volume  in  their  library. 
A  few  were  skilful  gardeners,  who  had  brought  home 
from  foreign  travel  such  rare  plants  as  would  live 
in  such  a  climate,  and  the  ivy  which  crept  up  the 
gray  sides  of  St.  Clement's  had  been  brought  from 


94  Aubrey  Parish. 

an  English  abbey.  Like  every  old  house,  the 
rectory  had  a  history,  and  had  it  had  speech  it 
would  have  told  a  sweet,  pathetic  story  of  its 
own. 

Such  was  Aubrey  Parish  and  the  house  which  for 
some  five  years  now  the  Rev.  Frederic  Ardenne  had 
occupied.  Is  it  complained  that  such  digressions 
break  up  our  story  ?  This  is  a  story  of  life  —  a  river 
flowing  underground,  but  every  now  and  then 
breaking  into  broad  reaches  with  the  shadow  or  the 
sunshine  on  them,  and  at  last  hiding  again  among 
the  silences. 


CHAPTER   X. 

HELEN   DE   VERB. 

BUT  what  of  Helen  De  Vere  in  all  these  years  ? 
Outwardly  she  followed  the  will  of  Sir  Chauncey 
over  half  Europe  ;  yet  her  home  was  always  where 
her  heart  was,  at  the  side  of  Frederic  Ardenne. 
Sir  Chauncey  was  a  great  pilgrim,  only  his  shrines 
were  not  those  of  the  saints.  So  he  often  crossed 
or  doubled  on  his  own  track  according  as  his  noble 
appetites  required,  and  repeated  himself  on  those 
cities  where  they  found  most  food.  Yet  generally 
he  left  the  two  women  he  was  dragging  at  his 
chariot  wheels  to  their  own  affairs,  and  they  could 
scarcely  afford  to  mind  his. 

Young  womanhood,  such  as  Helen's  was,  grows 
swiftly  mature  in  that  wisdom  which  is  born  of 
feminine  instincts,  keen  with  the  logic  of  a  woman's 
soul.  The  girl  had  become  a  woman  long  before 
Sir  Chauncey  had  dined  at  many  inns,  and  was 
waxing  daily  in  her  strong,  patient,  silent  heart-life. 
The  law  of  obedience,  which,  wisely  or  unwisely, 
she  had  herself  set  as  a  barrier  between  herself  and 
Frederic  Ardenne,  restrained,  indeed,  but  never 
dried  up,  the  waters  of  her  new  womanhood.  Ab- 


96     ,  Helen  De   Vere. 

sent  in  the  body,  her  soul  followed  him  daily,  some- 
times hourly.  And  as  those  waters,  ruled  of  her 
conscience,  would  neither  babble  nor  break  against 
the  barrier,  as  they  welled  up  they  retreated  and 
overswept  all  the  royal  domain  of  a  woman's 
nature,  every  nook  and  corner  of  it,  until,  in  her 
silent  submission,  she  came  to  possess  her  soul  as  a 
sacred  trust  for  him.  And  as  living  waters  must 
impart  the  life  they  hold  or  else  grow  stagnant,  so 
the  tide  of  her  love  in  the  service  of  Him  whose 
name  is  Love  flowed  out  into  sacrifice  for  others. 
Wherever  on  the  Continent  Sir  Chauncey  found  his 
inn,  she  was  sure  to  find  her  Church.  The  chaplains 
in  a  score  of  cities  long  remembered  the  young  Eng- 
lish girl  who  showed  a  strength  so  gentle  in  the  care 
of  their  poor  and  sick  folk.  Her  money  and  her 
service,  rain  or  shine,  were  at  command,  and  she 
gained  much  repute  as  one  quick  to  discriminate 
between  the  good  and  evil  among  those  to  whom 
she  ministered.  And  always,  in  the  hovels,  and 
with  the  sick  in  the  last  passage,  she  was  comforted 
in  that  hers  was  the  like  service,  though  under 
another  sun,  with  him  whose  love  had  made  all 
things  so  pure  and  sweet  for  her.  And  always 
in  that  mighty  Eucharistic  Feast,  that  Ecstasy 
of  Saints,  whose  charity  over-reaches  tide  and 
time,  to  bind  His  to  Him  and  to  each  other, 
absence  became  presence  and  she  was  not  alone. 
She  had  written  no  inquiries  back  to  Chester,  and 


Helen  De   Vere.  97 

Sir  Chauncey  so  far  forth  was  satisfied.  Miss  Han- 
nah had,  and  received  answers  too ;  which  her 
brother,  with  his  high-bred  tact,  had  managed  to 
read  before  her.  So  one  day  he  said  abruptly  to 
that  lady,  "  I  want  no  more  letters  out  of  Chester. 
Do  you  hear?  "  And  the  correspondence  ceased. 

Yet  he  had  his  own  plans  for  his  niece.  What 
they  were  appeared  in  an  interview  to  which  he 
commanded  her  one  spring  day  in  Florence.  On 
such  state  occasions  he  always  dressed  himself 
with  extra  care  and  made  the  most  of  his  lingering 
carcass  dressed  in  the  newest  modes.  That  day  he 
looked  to  Helen,  as  she  came  into  his  apartments, 
like  Decay  in  the  robes  of  Harlequin. 

Something,  too,  boded  in  his  face,  whose  lines 
were  always  a  trifle  harder  when  he  had  a  coarse 
thing  to  say.  He  wasted  no  words  this  time. 

"  You  are  getting  old,  Helen.  Why  don't  you 
marry  ?  " 

"  Marry  ?  Uncle  (the  brown  eyes  wide  open  and 
alarmed).  I  do  not  wish  to  marry." 

"  Ha  !  a  woman,  and  not  wish  to  marry  ?  What 
nonsense !  I  have  found  to  my  cost  that  a  woman 
with  only  one  foot  out  of  the  grave  thinks  herself 
marriageable ;  and  women  of  an  uncertain  age 
never  fix  with  themselves  a  time  when  they  will 
decline  a  wedding  ring.  No,  to  be  sure,  you  are 
not  speaking  truth,  girl.  All  of  you  wish  to  marry." 
And  he  laughed  a  dry,  wooden  laugh,  which  seemed 


98  Helen  De    Vere. 

to  come  from  no  nearer  his  heart  (if  he  had  one) 
than  his  throat,  which  he  certainly  had. 

"  But  I  have  told  you  the  truth,  Uncle." 

Sir  Chauncey  looked  out  at  the  windows  and  then 
round  the  room,  until  his  eyes  came  down  to  where 
the  woman  stood,  pale  and  still,  with  the  blood 
rushing  back  to  her  heart,  which  had  been  struck 
with  a  cruel  blow.  He  was  only  ruminating  an 
instant,  on  the  high  road  to  mischief.  He  even  in- 
dulged in  a  curt  whistle  of  satisfaction.  Then  he 
went  at  his  work  again. 

"  But  I  wish  you  to  marry,  Helen.  You  ought 
to  be  settled  instead  of  gadding  about  with  me  — 
and  the  priests,"  he  added  in  a  more  stomachic 
tone.  There  was  no  answer,  but  silence,  a  long 
space,  between  them. 

"  Do  you  hear  ?  "  he  went  on  at  last ;  "  I  wish  you 
to  marry.  Will  you  oblige  me  ?  "  Still  no  answer. 
Then  another  long  pause,  in  which  Sir  Chauncey, 
cunningly  as  he  thought,  left  his  niece  to  meditate 
her  charming  prospects.  "  Since  you  have  lost 
your  tongue,  Miss,  you  will  allow  me  to  answer  for 
you.  You  will  marry.  You  will  be  glad  to  have 
me  name  the  happy  gentleman  I  have  selected  for 
your  husband.  It  is  Sir  John  English,  who  dined 
here  yesterday." 

"  But  I  do  not  love  him,  Uncle." 

"  Love  him  !  bah !  you  silly  chit,  what  has  that 
to  do  with  marriage  ?  " 


Helen  De   Vere.  99 

"  But  you  would  not  have  me  marry  a  man  I  did 
not  love  ?  " 

"  Yes,  faith,  I  would.  Study  to  love  him,  grow 
to  love  him,  as  these  Italian  women  do  when  their 
mothers  marry  them  behind  their  backs,  and  look 
out  for  the  DOT  to  boot.  He  has  ten  thousand 
pounds  a  year  and  good  blood  to  back  his  suit  with 
any  girl." 

"  But  I  am  an  Englishwoman,  Uncle,"  Helen 
pleaded. 

"  Nonsense  !  Don't  English  mothers  sell  their 
daughters  every  day  in  London  parlors,  and  deliver 
the  merchandise  with  all  the  gauze  and  crinoline 
thrown  in  to  boot  at  leisure,  as  coolly  as  ever  Turk 
sold  his  Circassian  beauties  in  the  market-place  ? 
Look  at  me  now,  girl."  Sir  Chauncey  rose  from 
his  chair,  and,  stretching  up  his  portly  figure,  ad- 
vanced towards  her.  "  You  would  say  now,  if  you 
spoke  the  truth,  that  I  am  neither  young  nor  hand- 
some. In  fact,  you  know  that  I  am  old  and  gouty. 
Yet  if  I  had  a  hundred  thousand  pounds  to  my 
name,  I  could  go  among  the  fat  dowagers  to-morrow, 
and  they  would  sell  me  any  one  of  a  score  of  girls 
as  handsome  as  you  are,  even  if  they  had  to  com- 
plete the  sale,  prayer-book  in  hand,  when  they 
were  going  in  to  the  Sacrament  —  the  pious  souls  ! 
An  d  the  young  lady  herself  —  bah !  with  such  a 
mother,  what  could  she  do  ?  Why,  marry  me  and 
my  gout  together.  '  Mamma  had  told  her  I  was  too 


100  Helen  De    Vere. 

old  to  live  long,  and  she  would  look  charmingly  in 
widow's  weeds.  Weeds  are  so  becoming  to  a 
blonde,  you  know.'  Come,  marry  me  now  Sir  John 
English.  Will  you?" 

Before,  in  the  Chester  parlor,  he  had  had  a  mere 
child  to  deal  with  ;  now  there  was  a  woman.  And 
womanhood  such  as  hers  is  strength,  not  of  iron, 
storm,  or  sea  wave,  nor  even  of  the  granite  hills, 
but  the  strength  of  the  earth  bearing  flowers  after 
each  bitter  winter — that  awful,  passive  power,  Ori- 
ental, as  Indian  races  show,  who  wait  and  submit  the 
neck  for  a  thousand  ages,  to  win,  perhaps,  at  last. 
Sir  Chauncey's  first  salute  had  shocked  her  to  a 
mental  paralysis,  which  swiftly  passed.  Then  her 
soul,  out  of  deep  fountains,  rose  "to  resist,  and  she 
put  against  his  wish  all  of  herself  down  to  the  last 
drop  of  her  being,  made  pure  and  strong  by  con- 
science. This,  too,  not  by  reason,  but  that  wiser 
than  reason,  a  woman's  instincts  ;  and  these  in  the 
very  whirl  of  her  brain  did  their  work  unerringly. 
So  at  his  last  inquiry  the  woman  turned  her  eyes 
full  in  Sir  Chauncey's  face,  and  with  her  soul  a 
thousand  leagues,  as  it  were,  away  from  the  man 
before  her,  answered,  "  No."  It  was  a  "  No  "  which 
carried  with  it  a  falling  inflection  that  seemed  to 
reach  the  very  floor. 

Sir  Chauncey's  bodily  rage  was  tremulous,  but  he 
looked  on  and  on  at  her  until  he  said,  "Go  to  your 
room,  Miss ;  I  will  arrange  this  matter." 


Helen  De   Vere.  101 

Helen  De  Vere  did  go  to  her  room,  and  what 
was  more,  when  she  got  there  she  went  straight  to 
work  to  examine  this  whole  business  of  her  right 
relations  with  her  guardian.  First  of  all,  she  veri- 
fied the  verdict  of  her  instincts  by  her  reason. 
This  was  a  short  task.  Then  she  undertook  the 
larger  business  of  the  whole  situation.  She  had 
left  Frederic  Ardenne  and  followed  this  man  for 
years  because  he  stood  in  the  place  of  her  parents, 
and  the  Church  had  taught  her,  "  Honor  thy  father 
and  thy  mother."  And  yet  this  very  day  she  had 
utterly  refused  obedience.  How  could  she  be  right 
both  ways?  Her  strong,  loyal  nature  finally 
touched  the  logic  of  the  matter  at  its  very  roots. 
"  There  is  not  one  commandment,  but  ten,"  she 
said.  "Each  commandment  limits,  wherever  it 
touches,  all  the  others.  I  may  obey  my  parents, 
but  never  so  as  to  disobey  in  any  way  Him  who  is 
in  all  His  laws.  Marriage  without  love,  at  any 
one's  decree,  offends  all  purity  in  woman.  I  have 
set  up  a  barrier  of  duty  between  my  soul's  life  and 
Frederic  Ardenne's  presence.  But  until  God  out 
of  His  skies  bids  me  other,  I  will  not  defile  the 
waters." 

These  questions  and  others  consumed  her  whole 
day.  Why  should  not  all  honest  minds  mingle 
their  meditations  with  hers  ?  "What  is  marriage  ? 
Marriage  must  be  either  brutal  or  spiritual.  Once 
in  Christendom,  from  strand  to  summit  of  the  ever- 


102  Helen  De    Vere. 

lasting  hills,  it  was  called  a  sacrament.  Now  they 
call  it  something  else  —  an  alliance,  a  social  com- 
pact, an  economic  union.;  and  by  public  sentiment 
in  diverse  quarters  a  mere  convenience  to  be  erased 
in  pliant  courts  of  law  almost  any  time. 

But  yet  what  is  it?  An  Apostle,  who  ought  to 
be  authority  with  apostolic  people,  calls  it  a  great 
mystery,  hinting  at  that  ineffable  marriage  of  Christ 
with  His  Church  which  it  takes  two  worlds  and 
one  eternity  to  fulfil.  Above  all,  what  is  it  for  a 
woman  ?  For  since  a  woman  became  the  Mother 
of  God,  Christendom  clearly  holds  that  woman- 
hood, even  to  the  lowest  hag,  is  consecrated  by  a 
new  relationship  to  the  Divine.  Sister  of  the  Virgin 
Mother,  and  every  woman  brings  an  awful  dowry 
to  her  marriage.  Marriage,  therefore,  from  which 
the  soul  absents  itself  fore  ver  violates  the  purity 
of  God,  though  every  priest  on  the  round  globe 
should  advise  or  celebrate  the  sacrilege. 

But  Sir  Chauncey  went  at  his  work,  such  as  it 
was.  And  to  show  forth  his  will,  it  is  necessary  to 
explain  in  brief  his  comrade  in  all  this  trouble. 
Sir  John  English  was  an  ordinary  Briton,  who  had 
inherited  dead  men's  monies  and  had  never  tried 
to  make  any  living  man,  except  himself,  happier 
for  his  luck.  He  was  not  too  proud  to  be  fed  out 
of  the  hand  of  some  one's  labor,  and  yet  would  do 
no  honest  work  in  a  world  where  even  the  very 
sand  grains  toil.  He  had  long  since  run  away  from 


Helen  De    Vere.  103 

his  station  in  that  English  land  from  which  he  had 
derived  his  very  bone  and  muscle,  and  on  the  Con- 
tinent wasted  his  substance  upon  himself  so  as  to 
make  that  self  daily  the  lesser  man.  His  was  a 
diminuendo  life,  sinking  down  through  discords  to 
silence.  He  had  met  Sir  Chauncey  at  the  cafe's,  and 
won  his  admiration  by  his  skill  at  billiards  and  sev- 
eral other  lesser  and,  sooth  to  say,  more  uncertain 
virtues.  Cousin  in  the  flesh,  at  least,  he  was  to  Sir 
Chauncey's  pastimes,  and  the  latter,  when  maudlin 
with  wine,  had  promised  him  his  niece..  He  had 
been  home  with  Sir  Chauncey  several  times  to 
dinner,  and  had  met  Miss  Helen  so.  To  be  brief, 
after  his  interview  with  his  niece,  just  recorded,  Sir 
Chauncey  tried  other  devices,  and  made  haste  to 
deliver  the  promised  goods.  But  Helen  De  Vere 
failed  to  be  charming;  and  Sir  Chauncey  was  soon 
let  by  Sir  John's  own  sweet  will.  "Marry  that 
woman  ! "  he  said,  at  last ;  "I  would  as  soon  marry 
the  Prayer  Book!" 


CHAPTER   XI. 

MOTHER   WALKER. 

WE  begin  with  Aubrey  folk,  where  our  blessed 
Lord  began,  with  the  poor.  Mother  Walker  was 
one  whose  poverty  and  piety  gave  her  no  uncertain 
claim  upon  all  honest  Christians.  She  lived  in 
three  rooms  of  a  little  black,  wooden  house,  across 
the  river,  which  had  once  known  better  days,  when 
a  thrifty  Puritan  family  were  growing  up,  who,  as 
they  came  to  luck,  turned  their  backs  on  the  old 
home  for  the  more  garish  world  before  them.  It 
had,  outside,  a  rickety  pair  of  stairs,  which  led  to 
the  second  story  ;  its  windows  were  always  rattling 
in  the  shrunk  casings  when  the  wind  blew  ;  and 
an  occasional  window  blind,  half  unhinged  and 
askew  upon  its  rusty  fastening,  as  black  as  the  rest 
of  the  house,  and  the  loose  clapboards  over  the 
ancient  oak  frame,  seemed  to  say  that  the  very 
house  was  dead  or  at  least  dying  with  age.  It 
was  a  place  where  poverty  hides  itself  under  the 
mantle  of  decay. 

Mother  Walker,  in  outward  things,  was  very  like 
her  house ;  she  was  a  short,  stout-built,  fresh-colored 
woman,  who  might  have  once  been  handsome,  but 


Mother   Walker.  105 

was  now  clearly  old.  She  wore  a  white  cap,  which 
was  always  clean,  and  her  dress  was  of  no  par- 
ticular age  or  fashion.  She  was  an  emigrant  from 
England,  and  had  lived  hereabouts  for  many  years. 
She  was  always  poor,  and  had  never  pretended  to 
be  anything  else,  but  gained  a  precarious  livelihood 
among  the  town  folks  by  her  needle  as  long  as  her 
strength  lasted,  and  for  some  time  now  had  aged 
so  greatly  as  to  be  numbered  among  the  poor  of 
the  parish,  who  are  fed  by  the  communion  alms. 
Yet  she  had  that  simple-hearted,  pious  resignation 
to  her  lot,  and  gratitude  for  favors,  which  hindered 
people  from  thinking  of  her  as  a  beggar,  and  they 
who  gave  her  alms  had  a  sense  of  doing  them- 
selves a  favor.  Every  one  spoke  to  her,  when,  on 
Sunday  mornings,  staff  in  hand,  she  wended  her 
way  to  church,  and  took  her  one  seat  by  the  porch 
always  a  half-hour  or  so  before  the  service. 
When  at  the  Communion,  she  came  tottering  up 
the  aisle,  and  knelt  with  the  rest  at  the  chancel 
rail,  among  the  devout,  there  were  none  noted 
more  tenderly  by  the  congregation  than  she ;  and 
apart  from  the  business  of  preparing  her  frugal 
meals  and  minding  her  three  rooms,  her  human 
affairs  seemed  to  begin  and  end  in  her  parish 
church.  And  as  poverty  in  all  Christian  ages  finds 
its  single  refuge  at  the  altar,  so  Mother  Walker,  as 
strength  and  store  failed  her,  seemed  to  cling  closer 
to  holy  things  for  refuge.  For  one  who  looked  so 


106  Mother  Walker. 

old,  she  was  very  young,  and  in  all  her  years  of 
poverty  had  maintained  those  cheerful  manners 
which  are  so  winning  in  the  truly  Christian  poor. 

Even  the  young  folk,  especially  the  girls,  were 
fond  of  paying  her  visits,  and  the  very  children 
were  not  afraid  of  being  found  in  her  great  arm- 
chair, sometimes  asleep.  Somehow,  there  was  a 
subtle  affinity  between  them,  for  she  also,  despite 
her  years,  belonged  among  those  little  ones  of 
whom  the  Master  said,  "  Of  such  is  the  kingdom 
of  heaven."  All  the  parish  were  her  friends, 
because  she  was  the  friend  of  all ;  and  St.  Clem- 
ent's services  would  have  seemed  incomplete  had 
she  been  absent. 

There  was  the  sound  of  feet  on  the  stairs  out- 
side and  a  knock  at  Mother  Walker's  door.  The 
old  lady  set  down  her  earthen  teapot,  and  then 
said,  "  Come  in,  my  love."  So  the  visitor  came  in. 
"Ah,  my  love,  I  know  your  step,"  she  said  to  the 
young  girl  who  now  came  in  and  kissed  her.  "It 
is  your  day,  and  I  was  sure  you  would  come  down 
and  read  to  me  out  of  the  Good  Book.  You  are 
my  eyes,  my  love,  and  now  when  I  can't  see  clear 
with  my  spectacles  it's  such  a  blessing  to  have  you 
read." 

"  Yes,  Mother,  I  knew  you  would  look  for  me, 
and  so  I  hurried  off  from  school,  to  pay  you  a 
little  visit,"  and  the  new  comer  took  of  her  hat, 
put  one  or  two  chairs,  near  her,  back  in  their 


Mother   Walker.  107 

places,  as  though  she  was  quite  at  home,  then 
she  took  a  look  round  the  room  to  see  if  Mother 
Walker's  housekeeping  was  quite  in  order,  and 
said,  "  How  nicely  you  keep  your  room,  Mother." 

"  Ah,  my  love,  I  try  very  hard  to  keep  tidy,  and 
it's  not  much  I  have  to  set  to  rights;  but  my 
mother  always  taught  me  that  a  little  well  kept 
was  better  than  a  great  deal  out  of  sorts,  and  we 
must  honor  our  father  and  our  mother,  you  know. 
I  think  of  her  a  dozen  times  a  day  when  I  go  to  do 
something,  and  ask  myself  how  she  would  do  it ; 
bat  she  kept  house  better  nor  I,  and  I  can't  see 
the  dust  very  well  when  it  gets  on  the  chairs, 
though  I  go  round  with  a  cloth ;  and  there's  a  deal 
of  dust  about  in  this  old  house  some  way." 

"  I  wish  I  may  keep  house  as  well,  when  I  am 
as  old,"  said  her  visitor. 

It  is  time  that  this  visitor  should  be  introduced, 
to  whomsoever  it  may  concern.  Lucy  Farewell 
is  an  orphan.  She  is  also  the  teacher  of  St.  Clem- 
ent's school.  She  is  further  the  ward  of  Miss  Mary 
Kendrick,  a  famous  maiden  in  the  annals  of  the 
aforesaid  parish,  of  whom  we  shall  hear  more  anon. 

For  the  present  Lucy  Farewell,  as  we  see,  is  a 
guest  of  Mother  Walker's. 

"  Well,  Mother,"  said  Lucy,  after  her  ancient 
protege*  had  "  righted  "  her  cap,  as  she  called  it, 
just  a  trifle,  and  seated  herself  in  her  armchair  by 
the  stove,  "  how  have  you  been  this  week  ?  " 


108  Mother   Walker. 

"  I  have  been  very  happy,  thank  my  good  Lord. 
Yesterday  was  my  wedding  day  "  (it  was  her  habit 
to  remember  and  keep  in  her  own  way  the  anni- 
versaries of  at  least  two  generations  of  her  kins- 
folk), "  and  all  day  I  heard  the  chime  of  the  bells 
when  we  were  wed.  And  I  saw  the  spring  sun- 
shine, and  the  larks  in  the  air,  and  the  hawthorn 
hedges  not  quite  come  out,  and  the  priest  in  the 
chancel,  just  as  though  it  was  all  now.  Last  night  I 
dreamed  I  saw  my  father's  cottage,  and  our  family 
of  boys  and  girls  as  they  looked  when  they  were 
ready  for  church.  How  green  the  fields  were  as 
we  went  across  the  Squire's  land. 

"  And  there  was  one  tune  we  used  to  sing  at 
prayers,  which  I  heard  asleep,  just  as  plain  as  I 
hear  my  own  tongue  now.  I  was  so  glad,  I  cried, 
which  waked  me.  All  day- 1  have  been  thinking, 
love,  what  a  bright  day  it  will  be  for  me  when  we 
all  meet  again." 

"  You  never  told  me  much  about  your  friends, 
Mother." 

"  No,  love.  It's  not  for  them  like  me  to  tell 
young  folks  about  sad  things.  I  have  been  long 
alone  here.  My  man  died  away  off  in  Asia,  and 
my  boy  —  ah,  my  good  Lord,  —  is  dead  among  the 
heathen  ;  at  least,  they  told  me  so,  and  I  have 
never  heard  of  him  for  sure  since  he  went  to  sea." 

"  Do  you  never  hear  from  your  old  home  ?  " 

"  No.    Twenty  years  ago  a  man  came  from  there, 


Mother   Walker.  109 

and  I  went  to  see  him,  but  he  told  me  so  many 
folks  were  dead  that  I  thought  all  my  people  were 
in  the  graveyard.  May  they  rise  in  the  Last  Day, 
love." 

"Where  was  your  home,  Mother?" 

"Southcote  parish,  Lincolnshire." 

"  Perhaps  they  have  news  of  your  son  there." 

"  No ;  they  are  all  dead,  love,  that  knew  me,  and 
Johnny  is  dead,  too.  If  he  weren't  he  would  have 
come  to  his  old  mother  before  this." 

"  But  how  should  he  know  where  to  find  you  ? 
Perhaps,  after  all,  we  might  get  news  of  him.  We 
might  write." 

"Who  to?" 

"  The  rector  of  the  parish.  He  would  know,  if 
anybody,  and  I  am  sure  would  be  glad  to  answer 
you  if  he  had  any  tidings." 

The  idea  seemed  to  be  new  to  the  old  lady,  and 
to  perplex  her.  She  held  her  hand  to  her  forehead 
as  if  thinking  hard  at  the  difficulty.  Then  she 
turned  to  Lucy.  "  But,  love,  who  shall  write  ?  " 

"  I  will,  if  you  choose." 

"  But  what  will  you  write  ?  And  who  do  you 
expect  will  answer  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  a  nice  letter  ;  but  you  must  have  faith, 
Mother.  Somebody  will  answer  us.  Let  me  write 
down  now  what  you  tell  me.  What  was  your 
maiden  name  ?  " 

"  Mary  Lancy." 


110  Mother   Walker. 

"  And  what  was  your  husband's  name  ?  " 

"John  Walker." 

"  These  names  are  no  doubt  on  the  parish  regis- 
ter, and  I  shall  write  them  all  to  the  rector,  and  if 
he  can,  you  see,  he  will  help  us." 

So  Lucy  wrote  down  all  the  names  in  her  pocket- 
book. 

"I  will  send  the  letter,"  she  said.  "  Come, 
now,  I  interrupted  your  getting  tea.  We  must 
have  tea,  you  know."  And  Lucy  Farewell  lent 
a  hand  at  the  tea-making.  Mother  Walker  pro- 
duced two  great  white  cups  and  a  sugar-bowl  from 
the  cupboard  behind  the  stove-pipe,  with  a  couple 
of  white  plates  to  match,  a  broad,  fresh  loaf,  and  a 
little  butter.  Lucy  set  the  table  with  a  patched, 
but  very  white  cloth,  and  brought  forward  a  mys- 
terious package  in  paper,  which  turned  out  to  be  a 
jar  of  currant  jelly,  which  she  knew  to  be  greatly 
to  the  good  mother's  liking.  Then  when  grace 
was  said  and  tea  was  poured  out  of  the  brown 
earthen  pot,  the  two  ate  their  supper.  "Ah,  my 
love,  I  feel  younger  when  you  are  with  me,"  Mother 
Walker  said  at  the  tea-table.  "  I  am  alone  so 
much  that  my  mind  grows  stiff-jointed,  but  when 
you  are  here  it's  quite  as  though  May-day  had 
come." 

"  Well,  then,  Mother,  I  shall  come  often." 

After  the  tea-things  had  been  set  away,  and 
Mother  Walker  in  her  white  cap  had  gone  to  rest 


Mother   Walker.  Ill 

in  her  high-backed  chair,  Lucy  Farewell  sat  down 
by  the  window,  as  the  twilight  came,  to  read  out 
of  what  Mother  Walker  called  "The  Good  Book." 
The  chapter  she  read  to-night  was  the  sixth  of  St. 
Matthew,  which  contains  the  Beatitudes  of  our 
Lord.  And  as  she  read  out  of  that  great,  vast, 
shadowy  Book,  simple  in  truth,  infinite  in  mean- 
ing, which  has  been  in  all  ages  to  Christians,  food, 
strength,  courage,  hope,  and  light,  and  as  she  re- 
peated those  blessings  of  the  All-Loving,  which  are 
not  so  much  for  the  prcud  and  the  rich  and  the 
great  of  this  world  as  for  the  poor,  weary,  and  heavy- 
laden,  it  seemed  as  though  a  blessing  had  descended 
upon  the  aged  woman,  so  still  she  was  and  motion- 
less as  Lucy  read.  Then  followed  the  prayers ;  and 
as  they  two  knelt  down  in  the  twilight,  young  and 
old  —  spring  and  winter,  as  it  were  —  before  the 
same  Throne  that  guards  all  ages,  and  prayed  to 
that  Divine  Tenderness  which  embraces  with  its 
benison  all  creatures,  as  His  sunshine  does,  to  the 
sceptic  it  might  seem  a  very  common  misconceit, 
but  to  the  wise  a  most  tender  sacrifice  and  worship. 


CHAPTER    XII. 

A  MOTHER'S  SUKPRISE. 

THE  events  of  this  chapter  follow  the  last,  a 
couple  of  months  later  on. 

"  God  willing,  and  on  Sunday  morning  next  there 
will  be  public  baptism  in  this  church."  Such  was 
the  notice  which  the  rector  of  St.  Clement's  gave 
from  the  chancel  the  Sunday  after  Ascension. 
A  few  of  his  people  gathered  after  service  at  the 
chancel  rail  to  consult  with  their  pastor  about  bring- 
ing their  children  to  the  font.  These  were  mostly 
poor  people,  and  to  Mr.  Ardenne,  who  knew  their 
story,  there  was  many  a  page  of  sober  history  writ 
in  the  group  around  him  ;  for  to  the  wise  priest  his 
parish  is  a  curious  book  in  which  the  most  diverse 
and  wonderful  lessons  are  writ  down  in  living  char- 
acters. The  rector  in  his  week-day  visits  had 
already  given  such  instruction  as  was  needed  to 
the  right  understanding  of  what  they  were  about 
to  do  with  their  little  ones  in  baptism,  and  now  there 
were  merely  some  few  arrangements  to  be  made  as 
to  the  god-parents,  who  were  present ;  and  the  min- 
ister having  settled  such  matters  with  them  in  his 
quiet,  fatherly  way,  the  people  soon  took  their 
leave. 


A  Mother  s  /Surprise.  113 

Three  persons  stayed  behind  —  Miss  Lucy  Fare- 
well, Mother  Walker,  and  a  stout,  middle-aged, 
English -looking  man  beside  her. 

"Ah,  Mother,  how  are  you  to-day?"  said  the 
rector. 

"  Very  well,  thank  you,  my  lord  "  (making  a 
most  antique  curtsey) ;  "  the  Lord  has  had  great 
mercy  on  me  of  late.  This  is  my  son  here,  my 
lord,  my  long-lost  son,  come  back  to  his  old  mother, 
bless  him." 

The  man  thus  introduced  came  forward  with  an 
awkward,  sailor-like  bow,  and  paid  his  respects  to 
the  minister. 

"  John  wishes  to  be  baptized,  my  lord." 

"  How  is  it,  Mother,  that  so  good  a  churchwoman 
as  you  has  never  had  your  sou  baptized  before?" 

"  Ah,  my  lord,  it's  all  my  own  fault,  but  it's  just 
this  way.  My  husband  and  I  went  out  as  young 
folks  a  great  way  off,  up  what  they  call  the  Meder- 
terranean,  I  think,  to  try  and  better  ourselves.  He 
was  a  good  mechanic  and  had  something  to  do  with 
putting  up  engines  on  sugar  plantations.  He  says 
to  me,  'Mary,  we'll  get  aforehanded  here,  and  then 
go  back  to  dear  old  England  and  buy  a  bit  of  land 
and  a  cottage  and  live  like  a  king.'  But  ah,  my 
lord,  it  was  a  dreadful  country  :  no  churches,  nor 
ministers,  and  all  the  people  thereabouts  were 
heathen.  Well,  John  was  born ;  and  I  said  to  his 
father, '  John,' —  for  the  boy  took  his  name, — '  John, 


114  A  Mother's  Surprise. 

the  dear  little  fellow  must  be  baptized  like  a  good 
Christian.  There's  no  priest  here,  and  you  must 
do  it,  for  I've  heard  say  that  in  such  cases  folks  like 
us  may  do  it.  But  John  held  back;  as  it  were  he 
was  afraid  to  do  it,  lest  it  might  be  a  sin,  for  John 
was  very  careful  in  such  things ;  but  he  said,  '  O 
Mary,  you  just  wait  a  little ;  when  we  get  back  to 
England  we'll  have  Johnny  baptized  in  the  old 
parish  church,  where  we  were  wed,  and  with  Chris- 
tian folks  around  us,  for  here  it  is  all  heathen.' 
Well,  my  lord,  then  I  waited.  Poor  man,  he  never 
saw  England  more.  He  took  sick  of  the  fever, 
and  all  the  nursing  in  the  AA^orld  wouldn't  save 
him.  He  said  as  he  lay  sick,  '  Mary,  be  sure  and 
have  the  boy  christened.'  I  says  'Yes,  honey.'  And 
all  the  time  he  was  ailing  his  mind  seemed  to  be 
running  upon  our  old  home  as  we  had  left.  So  he 
died,  my  lord,  and  if  you  would  believe  it,  I  was 
the  only  person  who  could  say  a  word  or  read  a 
prayer  at  his  funeral.  My  heart,  I  thought,  would 
break,  but  I  couldn't  bear  that  John  should  be 
buried  like  a  dog,  without  a  word,  and  so  I  read 
the  service,  and  took  the  earth  up  in  my  hand  (I 
recollect  how  black  it  was)  and  scattered  it  on  the 
coffin,  and  said  the  prayers,  while  John  here,  the 
child  he  was,  was  held  up  in  a  black  man's  arms  to 
see  it  all.  You  don't  remember  that,  my  boy.  So 
I  was  left  alone  with  the  child.  I  had  no  money  to 
pay  my  way  back  to  England,  and  I  had  no  heart 


A  Mother's  /Surprise.  115 

to  go  back.  We  two  went  down  to  the  coast, 
where  there  were  more  white  folks,  to  a  place  where 
foreign  vessels  came  at  times,  and  there,  God  be 
thanked,  I  got  bread  and  work.  I  was  handy 
with  my  needle,  and  some  were  kind  to  '  the  Eng- 
lancler  with  her  child,'  as  they  called  me.  So 
Johnny  here  grew  up.  Ah  !  my  lord,  how  I  prayed 
that  he  might  be  a  good  child  and  take  me  back 
to  England.  But  you  know,  my  lord,  boys  are 
apt  to  go  their  own  way,  and  Johnny,  though  he 
was  kind  and  obedient,  had  always  a  love  for  the 
sea.  So  he  says,  "  Mother,  I  wish  to  go  a  voyage, 
and  come  back  rich  to  you,  and  then  we'll  go  home,' 
—  he  always  called  England  home,  you  see.  So  I 
says,  '  If  it's  the  Lord's  will,  you  must  go,  Johnny.' 
So  he  went,  and  never  shall  I  forget  that  day. 
And  always  about  my  work,  and  especially  nights 
and  mornings,  I  prayed  for  him,  that  he  might 
be  kept  safe  and  come  back.  But  he  never 
came  back  there.  Tie  was  shipwrecked  and  then 
took  by  the  enemy,  that  made  a  slave  of  him,  while 
I,  his  poor  mother,  only  heard  he  was  dead.  But 
I  waited  for  him  ten  years  where  I  was,  and  they 
was  long  years,  my  lord,  and  he  never  came  back. 
Then  I  thought  he  was  dead,  and  with  his  poor 
father  gone  I  was  nigh  upon  mad.  Then  I 
heard  of  America,  and  when  a  vessel  came  from 
there  I  went  to  the  Capt'n,  and  I  said,  '  Capt'n,  I 
want  to  go  to  America.'  'Who  are  you,'  he  says. 


116  A  Mother's  Surprise. 

'I  am  a  poor  woman  whose  man  is  buried  up 
country,  and  my  poor  sailor  boy  is  dead  among 
the  savages.'  '  What  can  you  do,'  he  says.  '  Any- 
thing almost.'  So  he  took  me  for  cook,  like,  and  I 
came  out.  And  here  in  this  place,  my  lord,  I  have 
lived  thirty  years  or  so.  And  it's  only  a  week  ago 
this  night  when  this  my  boy  came  walking  in  to  my 
house,  just  as  though  it  was  his  home.  '  Who  are 
you  ? '  says  I.  '  I  am  your  son  John  Walker,'  and  he 
put  his  arms  round  me.  It  didn't  look  like  him, 
and  he  was  much  older  like,  and  not  at  all  as 
Johnny  was,  and  I  said  'You  are  not  he;  he  is  dead 
in  Afriky.'  But  he  said  'No,  Mother,  I  am  alive,' 
and  then  he  told  me  some  things  correct  of  what  we 
did  among  the  heathen,  where  his  poor  father's 
grave  is.  '  Come  here  to  the  light,'  I  said ;  '  show 
me  your  cheek.'  And  sure  enough,  under  the 
whiskers,  was  the  scar  —  Johnny's  scar  —  that  he 
got  from  a  heathen  boy's  knife  in  the  streets  once  ; 
and  then  I  knew  him  to  be  my  son;  and  then,  my 
lord,  if  you  could  have  seen  us  two,  Johnny  and  I. 
It  was  as  though  he  had  come  back  to  me  from  the 
grave." 

"  It  is  all  true,  sir,"  said  the  son,  who  had  been 
brushing  the  tears  out  of  the  corners  of  his  eyes 
while  his  mother  was  telling  her  story.  "  It's  quite 
true,  sir,  and  more  than  strange.  I  have  been  in 
very  strange  places,  and  been  saved  out  of  all.  I 
was  a  slave  once  ten  years  among  the  Algerines, 


A  Mother's  Surprise.  117 

and  lived  harder  than  a  dog.  When  I  was  free  I 
went  back  to  her,  but  she  had  gone  to  America, 
they  said,  so  I  came  here  to  this  country.  But 
how  should  I  find  her?  It  was  like  hunting  for  a 
needle  in  a  haystack.  So  I  went  to  sea  again.  I 
have  had  a  hard  life  of  it.  I  went  into  the  navy 
latterly.  When  I  was  sick  once  with  yellow  jack, 
off  the  West  Indies,  I  told  the  chaplain  my  story. 
I  could  write  a  letter,  he  said.  I  had  learned  to 
read  and  write  a  little,  you  see,  sir,  aboard  a  man- 
o'-war,  and,  though  I  hadn't  it  in  my  mind  before, 
I  wrote  to  the  parson  of  the  parish  where  my 
mother  was  wed,  asking  about  her.  And  just  then, 
it  appears,  as  it  was  a  miracle,  that  kind  lady's 
letter,"  pointing  to  Lucy  Farewell,  "  had  come  to 
him  too,  and  he  wrote  me  back  where  she  was.  So 
I  came." 

"  From  what  shire  are  you,  my  man  ? " 

"Lincolnshire." 

"  Yours  is  a  very  singular  story.  Mother,  you 
should  be  thankful." 

"  Ah  !  I  am  that,  my  lord,  you  may  be  sure. 
Thankful  am  I  that  in  my  old  age  my  boy  is  with 
me,  and  that  he  is  to  be  baptized  at  last." 

"  Have  you  received  any  instruction  as  to  what 
baptism  means  ?"  asked  the  rector. 

"  The  old  lady  and  I  have  been  over  the  Prayer 
Book  together,  and  I've  studied  it  hard,  and  it 
appears  to  me  that  it's  just  what  every  man  of  us 
ought  to  do.  I'm  no  saint,  and  never  expect  to  be ; 


118  A  Mother's  Surprise. 

but  I've  thought  of  these  things  in  watch  on  deck, 
in  storms,  and  shipwreck,  and  among  savages.  I 
have  never  been  a  very  bad  man,  as  you  might  think, 
—  a  regular  decent  man,  though  I  say  it,  but  I  have 
never  been  a  Christian.  I  never  let  a  man  starve 
on  ship  or  ashore  if  I  had  bread  to  give  him,  and 
my  money  and  I  have  parted  many  a  time  for  a 
sick  shipmate  ;  but  I  know  that  alone  isn't  being  a 
Christian.  I  am  near  forty-five,  and  I've  been 
through  a  deal,  and  God  has  brought  me  safe  so  far  ; 
and  when  I  see  my  mother,  dear  old  soul,  and  think 
how  after  all  we  are  here  standing  aside  each  other,  I 
wish  to  thank  God  by  serving  Him.  I'm  afraid  I 
can't  be  so  perfect  as  I  wish,  but  I  shall  try.  I  am 
ready  to  take  the  vows." 

"  Very  well,"  said  the  rector,  "  I  am  glad  of  your 
happiness  and  of  your  intention.  I  will  see  you 
during  the  week  at  your  home  ;  and  you,  Mother 
Walker,  now  that  your  son  is  back  again,  I  expect 
to  find  you  the  happiest  person  in  the  parish." 

"  Ah  !  my  lord,  I  am  very  happy.  It  would  be 
a  sin  in  me  not  to  be."  And  mother  and  son 
went  forth  from  St.  Clement's  —  home. 

"  Mother  Walker  has  told  so  long  a  story  that  I 
cannot  make  the  inquiries  about  your  scholars 
that  I  wished,  Miss  Farewell.  I  will  do  so  when  I 
come  over  this  evening  to  Miss  Kendrick's."  Say- 
ing which,  the  rector  went  to  his  robing-room  to 
lay  aside  his  vestments,  and  the  other  —  Lucy  — 
went  home. 


CHAPTER     XIII. 

FOLK   A   PARSON   FINDS    OUT. 

THE  rector  of  St.  Clement's  was  a  thorough 
Churchman,  and  by  some  would  have  been  called 
a  bigot,  or  any  other  gentle  name  by  which  liberal 
people  mark  their  esteem  of  Christians  of  another 
fold  who  choose  to  keep  their  vows.  For  as  Mr. 
Ardenne  was  one  of  those  men  who  ha  I  wit  enough 
to  see  the  drift  and  genius  of  that  Church  in 
which  he  was  a  priest,  so  he  had  honesty  enough 
to  accept  that  system  in  a  grave  obedience,  which, 
while  it  did  not  abuse  others,  cherished  unflinch- 
ingly its  own.  He  had  early  learned  the  differ- 
ence between  liberality  and  indifference  in  reli- 
gion ;  and  as  he  knew  that  in  such  solemn 
matters  as  man's  salvation  a  priest  above  all  other 
men  should  have  his  opinions  well  defined,  he  had 
slight  respect  for  any  teacher  who  held  or  taught 
opinions  loosely.  In  other  words,  he  merely  in- 
sisted, to  use  a  military  phrase,  that  every  soldier 
who  enlists  should  be  loyal  to  his  colors ;  a  simple 
truth  which  some  Christians  ignore.  He  never 
shrunk  from  calling  Christ's  Church  Catholic,  not 
only  because  he  and  his  congregation  confessed  as 


120  Folk  a  Parson  Finds   Out. 

much  twice  every  Sunday  in  that  Apostle's  Creed 
which  was  as  old  as  the  Cross  almost,  but  because 
that  word  "  Catholic,"  as  applied  to  Christ's  visi- 
ble Body,  was  the  most  significant.  But  he  had 
too  clear  a  brain  not  to  see  that  Church  folk  cover 
themselves  with  shame  when,  boasting  the  privi- 
lege, they  abstain  from  the  duty  which  it  involves. 
For  while  he  believed  in  the  Catholic  Church,  and 
in  all  contained  in  those  mighty  words,  he  also 
believed  in  her  as  the  living  and  ever-busy  stew- 
ard of  good  things  to  men.  For  while  some  men 
cry  in  a  proud  conceit,  "  We  are  the  Church," 
and  fold  their  hands  before  the  Cross,  while  men 
perish  round  them  without  religion,  and  they  per- 
ish, too,  cross-signed,  Mr.  Ardenne  knew  that  the 
Catholic  Church  means  work,  instruction,  charity, 
sacrifice,  and  whatsoever  may  make  wiser  Christian 
men.  So,  while  he  reverenced  the  instrument,  he 
never  forgot  the  work  it  was  to  do.  In  this  way 
he  had  become  the  friend  of  the  poor  in  Aubrey 
Parish.  And  when  he  kneeled  down  in  the  hovels 
beside  the  sick,  amidst  the  waste  and  stain  and  pen- 
ury, or  read  them  comfortable  words  out  of  Holy 
Writ,  he  felt  a  tender  gratitude  rising  in  him  that 
he  was  called  to  follow  Him  who  forsook  the 
angels  to  consort  with  such  lowly  folk  as  these. 
For  him  it  was  sufficient  that  the  disciple  should 
be  as  his  Master  and  the  servant  as  his  Lord.  He 
had  a  hand  also  in  their  temporal  concerns,  ;ind 


Folk  a  Parson  Find  a    Out.  121 

his  were  very  anxious  days  when  the  millowners 
closed  their  shops  and  the  poor  went  without 
work.  Besides,  twice  a  year,  in  Spring  and  Fall, 
he  had  to  overlook  the  reclothing  of  the  poorest 
children  of  the  parish. 

It  was  to  inquire  about  certain  of  the  children 
soon  to  be  baptized  that  on  the  evening  of  the  day 
whose  events  are  recorded  in  the  preceding  chap- 
ter he  went  to  Miss  Mary  Kendrick's.  Miss  Mary 
was  a  maid,  but  she  was  not  young.  She  lived, 
moreover,  in  an  old-time  house  which  stood  among 
the  elms  facing  Aubrey  Common.  It  had  once 
been  a  stately  mansion,  as  times  went ;  and  its 
ample  roof  —  broken  amidst  into  an  obtuse  angle 
of  some  sixty  degrees  or  more,  as  though  it  had 
bulged  out  there  under  the  weight  of  the  snows 
of  so  many  winters,  or  because  its  joints  were  too 
weak  with  age  to  keep  it  upright  —  had  cov- 
ered several  generations  of  as  good  blood  as  was 
to  be  found  in  the  parish.  Its  two  rooms  on 
either  side  the  front  door  were  square,  but  the 
rest  were  most  singularly  rich  in  angles,  as  though 
partaking  of  the  humor  of  the  mistress  who  lived 
there.  They  were  amply  supplied  with  cats,  for 
which  Miss  Mary  had  a  passion,  which  grew  upon 
her  with  her  age.  She  was  a  tall,  lean,  busy,  bust- 
ling body,  who  knew  every  one  and  their  great- 
grandfathers, and  was  a  far  better  repository  of 
the  history  of  Aubrey  folks  than  the  town  clerk's 


122  Folk  a  Parson  Finds   Out. 

register.  She  wore  a  wig,  and  her  teeth  were  not 
old,  but  the  tongue  between  them  had  all  the  viva- 
city of  youth.  Fifty  years  ago  she  had  been  a 
belle  and  had  her  turn  at  love-making  and  the 
thousand  and  one  pastimes  with  which  girls,  young 
and  handsome,  amuse  themselves.  But  her  part- 
ners in  the  dance  were  long  since  gone,  and  the  old 
hall  where  they  danced  on  the  hard  pine  floor  in 
the  frosty  mid-winter  nights  had  long  since  fallen 
to  decay,  as  though  to  show  sympathy  with  the 
mortal  lot  of  its  patrons.  Yet  while  on  the  outside 
she  grew  dry  and  withered,  her  heart  became  gen- 
tle, like  those  pears  which,  growing  rough  outside, 
mellow  at  their  hearts  with  all  the  juices  and  sunny 
flavor  of  the  hazy  autumn  days.  Truth  to  say, 
Miss  Mary's  nature,  like  her  tongue,  had  two  sides 
to  it.  She  was  always  ready  to  lend  a  hand  or  fight 
a  battle,  and  she  stinted  neither  friend  nor  foe.  She 
would  watch  all  night  with  a  neighbor  and  then 
fight  all  day  for  a  friend,  and  though  she  had  no 
stain  of  meanness  in  her  warfare,  it  was  of  such 
quality  that  Aubrey  folk,  and,  above  all,  women, 
were  slow  to  invite  her  wrath.  So  she  lived,  if  not 
in  peace  with  all  men,  at  least  in  a  frank  and  open 
way  —  the  most  pronounced  and  ancient  maid  of 
Aubrey.  Indoors  and  upon  her  premises  every- 
thing was  governed  with  great  exactness,  and  in 
her  garrets  she  had  more  old  linen  packed  away  in 
lavender  or  tansy  than  would  have  sufficed  for  half 


Folk  a  Parson  Finds   Out.  123 

the  outfits  of  the  marriageable  folk  in  town.  Her 
ancient  china  and  silver  spoons  were  actually  famous 
among  Aubrey  gossips,  and  if  an  earthly  Paradise 
be  the  place  where  there  is  no  dirt,  her  house  was 
Eden.  In  her  house  thrift  followed  economy  and 
nothing  was  wasted.  Yet  in  her  generation  she 
had  fed  many  poor,  and  the  tramps  were  always  sure 
of  a  crust,  at  least,  at  her  back  door.  Even  her  reli- 
gion had  a  martial  ring  to  it,  and  she  fought  for  her 
Church  with  all  the  ardor  of  an  ancient  Confessor. 
A  certain  storminess  of  temper  was  hid  for  most 
folk  behind  her  good  deeds,  and  Mary  Kendrick 
was  not  a  woman  to  be  lightly  spoken  of  by  any. 
She  was  Lucy  Farewell's  god-mother,  and  as  such 
had  received  her,  when  an  infant,  into  her  house- 
hold, and  had  been  as  a  mother. 

Mr.  Ardenne  found  her  at  tea  over  the  whitest 
tablecloth  imaginable,  while  a  wood  fire  blazed 
on  the  fat  brass  andirons.  The  minister  took  his 
seat  at  the  table  and  proceeded  to  attend.  For 
Miss  Mary  had  such  faculty  of  speech  as  is  not 
always  vouchsafed  to  mortals,  and  talking  was  a 
talent  she  never  hid  in  a  napkin,  and  whenever 
on  earth  she  met  her  fellow-creatures,  whatsoever 
the  subject  broached,  her  share  of  the  conversation 
was  at  least  one-half.  Her  tongue  never  showed 
signs  of  age,  and  its  quality  was  so  well  known  to 
the  rector,  that  whenever  he  made  his  advent  to 
Miss  Mary's  society  he  always  began  to  listen. 


124  Folk  a  Parson  Finds    Out. 

"  If  poor  folks  were  as  slow  to  wear  out  their 
clothes  as  they  are  to  work,  or  to  save  their  money, 
there  would  be  much  less  for  honest  people  to  do 
in  St.  Clement's.  There's  Widow  Bates'  child- 
ren :  if  you  gave  the  girls  velvet  cloaks  they  would 
be  sure  to  wash  dishes  in  them  ;  and  as  to  the  boys, 
whenever  we  fix  them  up  they  are  sure  to  fall  into 
the  river  the  first  day  they  wear  their  new  clothes. 
They  are  always  ragged,  and  I  am  always  running 
there  to  see  why  they  are  not  at  church.  I  do 
believe  they  would  have  nothing  to  wear  if  a 
tailor's  shop  was  emptied  into  their  den  once  a 
week.  And  there  are  the  Hobsons,  English  folks. 
The  only  thing  they  are  rich  in  is  children  and 
pigs,  and  I  declare  I  think  sometimes  I  like  the 
pigs  best,  for  they  don't  bother  me  for  dresses.  I 
don't  see  why  people  who  have  the  most  mouths 
to  feed  have  the  least  to  put  into  them.  I  wish  I 
could  stop  this  children  business,  or  they'll  be  the 
death  of  me,  for  this  last  fortnight  it's  been  nothing 
but  calico  and  stockings  and  trousers  for  these 
weak  Christians  and  I'm  quite  worn  out  with  it.1' 

"  I  notice  that  you  always  recover  from  your 
fatigue,  Miss  Mary,"  the  minister  said,  "  whenever 
there  is  a  good  deed  to  be  done  for  these  same 
people." 

"  Well,  so  I  do,  but  it  comes  tough,  often  that  I, 
who  have  never  had  any  children  of  my  own, 
should  be  troubled  with  other  folks'.  But  it  all 


Folk  a  Parson  Finds   Out.  125 

goes  into  a  lifetime,  maybe,  and  it's  better  to  wear 
out  than  to  rust  out.  And  here  is  Lucy.  I 
declare  I  have  hardly  caught  sight  of  that  child's 
face  since  Easter.  When  she's  not  begging  old 
clothes  from  the  neighbors,  she's  mending  or  fit- 
ting them  with  her  head  in  her  work-basket,  and 
if  I  see  as  little  of  her  for  a  month  to  come  I  shall 
need  an  introduction." 

"  You  certainly  have  great  misfortunes,"  said 
the  rector. 

"  Yes  ;  and  they  increase.  I  don't  mind  work, 
and  I  suppose  I  shall  go  on  in  the  old  way,  run- 
ning down  to  Mrs.  Bates'  or  Mrs.  Hobson's  Monday 
mornings;  but  I  mean  to  scold  about  it  to  iny 
heart's  content.  I  wouldn't  like  to  take  my  pay  in 
their  gratitude.  Do  you  know  that  the  very  last 
time  I  was  there  the  oldest  Bates  girl  whispered 
to  her  sister,  loud  enough  for  everybody  to  hear, 
that  my  wig  was  put  on  crooked,  the  hussy,  and  her 
brother,  who  is  in  Lucy's  Sunday-school  class,  act- 
ually pulled  the  ribbons  off  her  bonnet  when  she  was 
teaching  them  the  Ten  Commandments !  "  After 
which  oration  Miss  Mary  proceeded  to  refresh 
herself  with  another  cup  of  tea. 

"I  know,"  the  rector  said,  "that  much  of  the 
work  we  have  to  do  for  the  poor  is  very  vexing, 
and  nothing  more  so  than  to  try  to  dress  up 
thriftless  or  thankless  people ;  but  ingratitude, 
I  sometimes  think,  is  a  •  part  of  the  curse  of 


126  Folk  a  Parson  Finds   Out. 

poverty,  and  as  such  to  be  overlooked.  But  here, 
you  know,  we  do  not  expect  reward,  and  the  thank- 
fulness of  some  of  the  parish  poor  is  actually  over- 
whelming. A  poor  child  brought  me  two  apples 
as  an  Easter  offering,  and  when  she  took  them  out 
of  her  pocket  they  looked  to  me  as  delicious  fruit 
as  a  parson  ever  tasted.  No  !  Miss  Mary,  the 
poor  are  like  the  rest  of  the  world,  some  good, 
some  bad,  yet  I  think  I  have  as  often  found  true 
gentleness  and  kindness  among  them  as  among 
any  class.  At  least  we  have  this  consolation,  that 
when  we  feed  the  poor  we  allay  the  hunger  of  our 
Lord." 

"  Yes,  but  if  the  Bates  would  attend  less  to  my 
wig,  and  a  little  more  to  mending  their  own 
dresses,  I  should  be  much  better  pleased." 

The  rector  made  no  reply.  When  it  was  evi- 
dent that  Miss  Mary's  tongue  had  returned  to  its 
repose,  at  least  so  far  as  St.  Clement's  poor  were 
concerned,  he  made  his  enquiries  of  Lucy  Farewell. 

She  said,  "  The  ladies  of  the  parish  have  seen  to 
dressing  the  children  who  are  to  be  baptized,  in 
the  few  cases  where  the  parents  are  too  poor  to  do 
so;"  and  she  gave  him  a  list  of  the  names.  Then 
when  these  matters  were  arranged  and  the  tea 
things  were  removed,  before  the  open  fire  the 
three  chatted  about  such  things  as  Christians 
may,  far  on  into  the  evening. 


CHAPTER     XIV. 

THE   PARTY   AT   EIVEli   NOOK. 

"  ARE  you  going  to  the  prayer  meeting  or  the 
party  to-morrow  night,''  asked  Isabel  Seaton  of 
her  neighbor,  as  a  crowd  of  young  men  and  women 
came  pouring  out  of  the  basement  room  of  the 
meeting-house,  where  a  so-called  "  revival "  had 
been  for  a  week  in  progress. 

"To  the  party,  of  course.  I  decided  what  to 
wear  while  Deacon  Hobbs  was  making  his  last 
prayer  —  white  with  blue  ribbons." 

"  And  I  —  what  a  bore  to  dress  in  the  country. 
Besides,  the  whole  town,  they  say,  is  going  to  be 
there  ;  and  one's  dress  might  come  to  grief  in  such 
a  crowd.  Yet  one  would  like  to  make  an  impres- 
sion at  the  bachelor's.  Besides,  the  sapper  is  to 
be  elegant.  I  lost  the  good  of  the  prayer  meet- 
ing wishing  that  I  could  wear  lavender  as  well  as 
the  stout  brunette  who  sat  just  before  us.  When 
I  go  amongst  ill-dressed  people  I  always  amuse 
myself  redressing  them  according  to  the  extreme 
mode.  I  am  a  great  sinner,  I  know,  but  what 
does  a  woman  live  for  except  to  dress  and  eat  ices 
at  a  party  now  and  then !  And  the  country  is 
so  very  stupid." 


128  The  Party  at  River  Nook. 

The  speaker,  Isabel  Seaton,  a  stylish  blonde  of 
twenty  or  thereabouts,  is  a  city  belle,  who  after 
a  winter  of  dissipation  came  in  the  spring  to  the 
country  with  her  family  to  recruit  for  the  next 
season's  revels,  and  to  grace  Aubrey  Parish  with 
her  rather  exclusive  society  during  the  warm 
weather.  She  had  found  a  new  sensation  in  the 
revival  to-night,  and  had  improved  it  as  she  has 
told  us. 

Aubrey  Parish  was  experiencing  just  now  two 
sensations,  a  "  revival "  and  a  party.  Religion  at 
the  meeting-house  had  been  rather  husky  of  late, 
but  a  series  of  protracted  meetings  had  given  it 
a  new  vivacity. 

Besides,  for  the  young  folk  there  was  the  party. 
Now,  there  was  a  certain  piquancy  about  this 
party,  above  some  others,  in  the  minds  of  Aubrey 
young  ladies,  due  to  the  fact  that  it  was  given 
by  a  bachelor,  Mr.  Edward  Vaughn,  about  whom 
there  was  much  gossip. 

It  may  be  well  to  state  at  once  who  he  is.  Ed- 
ward Vaughn,  years  ago,  was  a  young  man  of 

promise  at  the  College  of  X .     An  heir  and 

handsome,  at  graduation  he  had  become  a  city  beau, 
the  gayest  of  the  gay,  to  whom  all  houses  were 
open,  and  was  looked  upon  as  one  of  the  rising 
men  of  the  metropolis.  Suddenly,  and  why  no 
one  knew,  he  shut  his  house,  and  accepting  an 
obscure  consulate  in  the  East,  went  abroad  and 


The  Party  at  River  Nook.  129 

stayed  some  fifteen  years.  What  little  his  old 
friends  heard  of  him  came  to  this,  that  he  had 
become  a  great  traveller  and  fond  of  visiting  the 
most  outlandish  places,  in  a  certain  reckless  way, 
as  to  how  he  fared  or  with  whom  he  fraternized. 
The  few  of  his  countrymen  who  had  visited  him 
brought  back  very  uncertain  accounts  of  his  way 
of  living,  and  it  was  whispered  that  his  habits  in 
the  East  had  been  more  than  equivocal,  if  meas- 
ured by  severer  Occidental  standards.  To  one  of 
them,  a  college  friend  who  had  ventured  to  ask 
him,  in  these  foreign  parts,  why  he  came  out  to 
such  a  place,  and  perilled  a  brilliant  career  at  home, 
he  had  answered  with  such  a  storm  of  passionate 
words  that  the  enquiry  was  not  repeated.  He 
had  come  home  as  suddenly  as  he  went,  bringing 
a  rare  collection  of  antique  things  and  curiosities. 
At  home  he  found  everything  changed.  The 
girls  he  had  danced  with  were  now  matrons  with 
groups  of  children  round  them,  and  the  men  were 
married  or  become  bachelors  about  town.  The 
world  he  knew  had  passed  on  and  left  him  behind 
to  face  a  new  generation.  He  had  spent  a  few  un- 
easy months  in  his  old  haunts,  and  then  created  a 
new  sensation  by  suddenly  precipitating  himself 
upon  Aubrey  Parish,  where  he  had  settled  as  an 
absolute  stranger.  He  had  fancied  the  scenery  on 
a  chance  journey  through  the  town,  and  as  the 
mood  was  on  him  he  settled  there.  First  of  all,  he 


130  The  Party  at  River  Nook. 

bought  a  wide  tract  of  pasture  land  on  the  hillside, 
whence  one  looks  up  the  valleys  of  the  two  rivers, 
and  built  himself  a  house  there.  It  stood  among  elms 
and  oaks,  and  in  such  wise  as  to  be  almost  hid  from 
the  town  folk,  who  were  somewhat  nettled  by  the 
reserve  which  kept  him  from  asking  their  advice 
as  to  its  plan  or  building.  All  the  workmen  and 
the  material  had  been  brought  from  the  city,  and 
not  even  the  smallest  trifle  was  ever  bought  in  the 
shops  of  the  town  folk.  Even  the  servants  were 
from  abroad,  and  one  who  had  been  so  imprudent 
as  to  say  to  a  town  gossip  that  it  was  her  master's 
orders  that  no  word  was  to  be  said  of  what  went 
on  at  River  Nook  (for  so  the  place  was  called,)  was 
sent  back  to  the  city  the  next  day  in  disgrace. 
Stout  iron  gates,  always  barred  except  when  the 
master  or  his  people  went  in  or  out,  excluded  the 
town  folk,  who  revenged  themselves  for  the  stran- 
ger's unsociability  by  the  most  diverse  and  ingen- 
ious guesses  as  to  what  he  was  and  had  been.  Here, 
careless  of  all  his  neighbors,  he  had  brought  all  his 
goods,  and  in  three  years'  time  he  had  ploughed 
and  smoothed  his  pasture  land  into  a  green  and 
well-kept  park.  Occasionally  an  old  friend  came 
from  the  city,  but  always  with  a  written  invita- 
tion, and  few  stayed  long.  For  a  man  who  was  not 
obliged  to  work,  the  town's  people  thought  him 
the  busiest  of  men.  With  his  gun  or  his  rod,  or 
riding  hard  on  horseback,  he  was  seen  by  them  all 


The  .Party  at  River  Nook.  131 

hours  in  the  fields  or  roads  on  his  own  business, 
which  lie  never  saw  fit  to  impart  or  discuss  with 
them.  Occasionally  he  was  seen  at  the  church 
or  meeting-house.  Sometimes  he  was  absent  for 
days  with  his  yacht  down  the  river.  There  were 
two  things  to  be  said  in  his  favor.  When  times 
were  hard  in  the  winter,  and  the  poor  grew  poorer, 
he  had  a  way  of  sending  from  River  Nook,  by  the 
hands  of  his  foreman,  both  bread  and  fuel ;  and 
they  told  also  of  large  monies  scattered  in  the 
hovels.  The  only  people  he  took  notice  of  were 
the  beggars  and  "the  queer  folks."  Here  and 
there  through  the  town  were  to  be  found,  as  every- 
where, unfortunates ;  men  and  women  wrecked  in 
the  very  fibre  of  their  lives  by  birth  or  sickness, 
and  grown  askew  and  crooked ;  people  in  whom 
one  often  finds  a  rare  but  momentary  wit  fading 
out  into  unreason  again,  sparks  of  a  holy  fire,  over- 
laid of  ashes  yet,  reminding  us  that  they  too  once 
were  men  like  ourselves.  These  are  called  queer 
folk  or  crazy,  and  with  them  Edward  Vaughn 
was  sociable.  He  knew  them  all,  and  was  never 
so  much  in  a  hurry  that  he  could  not  stop  a 
moment  to  greet  them,  or  give  them  a  trifle,  when 
he  met  them  in  the  roads  or  fields.  These  knew 
him,  too,  for  their  friend,  and  there  was  no  service 
possible  for  their  maimed  natures  that  they  would 
not  have  rendered  him.  Thus  he  had  spent  three 
years  in  Aubrey  Parish,  and  was  regarded  by  most 


132  The  Party  at  River  Nook. 

people  as  a  strange  or  uncanny  mortal  who  thought 
himself  too  fine  or  wicked  to  associate  with  them. 

The  acute  surprise  of  Aubrey  people  may  be 
imagined,  therefore,  when  the  proprietor  of  River 
Nook  issued  cards  for  his  party.  Cards  they 
were,  in  the  true  human  fashion,  sent  round  to 
nearly  all  the  young  folks:  and  at  the  bottom 
was  vouchsafed  the  information  that  there  would 
be  dancing.  Of  course  there  could  be  no  mistake. 
There  was  to  be  a  real  party  at  the  Nook.  The 
news  had  different  effects  on  different  persons. 
It  sent  the  young  ladies  forthwith  to  their  ward- 
robes, and  vast  was  the  wit  and  labor  which  had 
been  already  spent  in  the  arrangement  of  their 
toilettes  for  the  coming  fete.  Some  of  the  more 
surly  and  older  townsfolk  saw  in  it  only  another 
freak  of  their  unsocial  townsman,  and  predicted  all 
sorts  of  uncomfortable  results.  The  party  had 
already  seriously  interfered  with  the  revival. 

The  gates  of  River  Nook  were  wide  open. 
Curiously  painted  lanterns,  hung  from  the  trees, 
cast  their  colored  lights  through  the  fresh  leaves 
upon  the  broad  avenue  that  led  to  the  house. 
Every  room  was  open,  and  lighted  with  wax  tapers. 
A  band  from  the  city  waited  on  the  verandah  to 
welcome  the  company  with  music.  Even  the 
servants  were  dressed,  by  their  master's  order,  with 
great  exactness.  Edward  Vaughn  awaited  his 
guests.  In  clue  time  they  came,  the  most  of  them 


The  Parti/  at  River  Nook.  133 

as  late  as  possible,  since  to  manifest  a  polite  reluc- 
tance to  a  host's  society  by  coming  at  the  eleventh 
hour  is  always  considered  by  the  wise  to  be  well- 
bred.  Several  even  took  cold  while  watching  from 
a  dark  room  for  the  rest  to  go,  that  they  might  not 
be  before  their  neighbors.  Some  came  in  those 
ancient  and  stately  vehicles  in  which  their  grand- 
mothers had  gone  to  their  wedding,  and  which 
were  held  of  equal  value  with  the  family  plate  as 
evidences  of  pedigree, —  carriages  carefully  dusted 
out  and  oiled  that  afternoon  to  bear  their  burden  of 
aspiring  young  beauty  to  the  party.  The  chariots 
of  the  millowners  were  mostly  new  and  smelt  of 
varnish,  and  a  few  of  them  had  crests — not,  as  one 
would  anticipate,  a  hammer  resting  on  an  anvil, 
or  a  water-wheel  among  stars,  but  very  singular 
creatures,  like  birds  or  beasts,  with  Latin  or  Nor- 
man-French mottoes  in  the  most  pronounced  style 
of  ancient  heraldry.  There  were  also  less  mighty 
coaches,  and  a  few  of  the  young  folk  came  leisurely 
down  on  foot.  Mr.  Vaughn  received  his  guests  with 
a  cordial  but  rather  stately  manner,  after  the 
gentler  sex  had  retouched  its  toilette  in  the  dress- 
ing rooms,  preparatory  to  the  evening's  play,  or 
conquest,  or  whatever  else  goes  on  amongst  mor- 
tals on  such  occasions.  Until  dancing  began,  all 
were  to  amuse  themselves  according  to  their  taste, 
the  host  said,  and  the  bright  open  rooms,  with  their 
elaborate  furniture,  invited  not  a  few  young  ladies, 


134  The  Party  at  River  Nook. 

and  every  matron  in  the  crowd,  to  examine  the 
upholstery  and  housekeeping  of  the  bachelor  who 
had  heretofore  kept  his  doors  closed  to  their  curi- 
osity. It  was  certainly  housekeeping  like  no 
other  in  Aubrey  Parish.  Two  giants  in  armor 
kept  guard  at  the  hall  door.  The  mirrors  were 
from  floor  to  ceiling,  the  pictures  profuse  and  from 
the  most  diverse  schools,  white  marble  statuary  in. 
the  alcoves  and  corners,  some  of  which  was  looked 
at  with  a  quick  side  glance  by  .the  more  proper 
people,  as  creatures  too  scantily  clad  for  even  a 
rich  man's  house ;  the  house-clocks  and  candle- 
sticks upon  the  mantels  —  in  short  it  was  the 
house  of  a  man  with  both  means  and  wit  to  furnish 
it.  The  more  observant  matrons  remarked  that 
the  lace  curtains  had  been  lately  ironed,  and  the 
carpets  swept,  while  a  few  of  the  more  practical 
spirits  puzzled  their  brains  to  calculate  what  all 
this  had  cost.  There  was  one  frank  young  lady 
who  assured  her  confidential  friend  that  if  she  had 
the  ordering  of  it  she  would  put  blue  curtains 
outside  the  lace  ;  though  the  half-wish  behind  the 
words  was  never  gratified. 

To  describe  a  party  is  like  counting  sands  or 
photographing  moving  clouds.  Belles  and  beaus 
of  Aubrey  pattern,  sentinelled  by  the  more 
stolid  elders ;  talk,  jest,  criticism,  love-making ; 
people  in  pairs,  people  in  apology  or  distress,  as 
they  happened  to  be  the  sinner  or  the  sufferer,  in 


The  Party  at  River  Nook.  135 

somebody's  toilette  disarranged  or  rent  by  the 
unlucky  catastrophes  of  mixed  societies  ;  people 
doling  out  their  civilities  to  their  neighbors 
through  a  very  fine  sieve  of  caution  lest  they 
should  happen  to  speak  too  kindly ;  uncertain 
people,  who  expected  every  one  to  talk  to  them, 
and  talked  to  no  one,  so  self-conscious  that  they 
blushed  and  stammered  when  they  spoke  and  yet 
were  always  wondering  why  the  crowd  passed 
them  by  for  more  easy  partners ;  a  curious,  com- 
plex crowd,  all  after  something  and  few  to  get 
more  than  their  suppers  or  a  to-morrow's  headache 
and  an  opportunity  to  hatch  more  gossip  and  feud 
than  could  be  laid  asleep  in  the  next  twelvemonth 
—  Edward  Vaughn  might  congratulate  himself 
that  his  party  was  in  these  respects  a  great  success. 
It  was  the  custom  of  Aubrey  society  to  thaw 
out  by  degrees;  but  to-night  the  hearty  welcome  of 
the  house,  which  left  them  free  to  do  what  they 
would,  broke  through  the  crust  of  ceremony 
sooner  than  usual,  and  people  were  really  enjoying 
themselves  before  dancing  came  on.  Edward 
Vaughn  acted  the  host  after  his  own  fashion,  and 
very  soon  became  tolerably  at  home  with  several. 
Certain  fat  ladies,  with  a  vast  breadth  of  satin 
round  them,  smiled  upon  him  graciously,  and  truth 
to  say  he  was  civil  to  mothers  and  daughters  both ; 
going  among  his  guests  in  a  very  quiet  manner, 
and  neither  danced  nor  stayed  long  with  any. 


136  The  Party  at  River  Nook. 

"  Where  is  Blanche,  my  dear,"  said  Madame 
Seaton  to  her  daughter  Isabelle,  whom  we  met 
lately  at  the  prayer  meeting, —  just  as  Edward 
Vaughn,  having  made  the  circuit  of  the  rooms, 
came  back  to  the  library  door,  by  which  was  seated 
Mrs.  Seaton  watching  the  dancers. 

"  Indeed,  I  don't  know,  Ma.  She  left  me  half 
an  hour  ago,  saying  she  would  go  outdoors  to  get 
some  fresh  air.  I  dare  say  she  is  amusing  herself 
looking  at  the  nioon." 

"  Have  you  seen  my  niece "  (to  Edward 
Vaughn),  nodding  the  point-lace  cap  in  a  very 
stately  manner  at  her  host. 

"I  really  do  not  remember  your  niece,  madam, 
and  from  having  met  so  many  agreeable  people 
for  the  first  time  to-night,  my  brain  is  a  trifle  con- 
fused as  to  names  and  faces.  I  will  send  a  ser- 
vant to  search  for  her  if  you  like." 

"  How  should  Mr.  Vaughn  know  Blanche,  Ma. 
I  doubt  whether  he  has  ever  seen  her.  He  was 
arranging  about  the  dances  when  we  came,  and 
Blanche,  you  know,  said  she  would  wait  a  little  for 
an  introduction,  and  I  have  hardly  seen  her  since." 

"  Then  my  niece  has  not  yet  been  introduced  to 
Mr.  Vaughn.  It  is  a  little  rude  in  her,  I'm  sure. 
Belle,  dear  girl,  be  kind  enough  to  find  her  and 
bring  her  to  me.  I  very  much  wish  Mr.  Vaughn 
to  know  her." 

"Indeed,    madam,    you    pique     my    curiosity. 


The  Party  at  River  Nook.  137 

Will  you  be  so  kind  as  to  describe  your  niece  to 
me  ?     I  should  be  glad  to  hunt  her  up  myself." 

"Would  you  like  a  particular  description," 
broke  in  Miss  Isabel.  "  Well,  then,  a  perfect 
blonde,  some  five  feet  eight ;  I  don't  know  what 
she  weighs ;  round,  dimply  hands ;  a  dignified, 
fresh-colored  lady.  Now  I  have  told  you  every- 
thing I  know  about  her  except  her  age  ;  and  an 
unmarried  lady  is  always  of  no  particular  age, 
you  know.  O,  I  forgot ;  the  lady  wears  to-night 
a  crimson  dress  trimmed  with  lace  (point,  of 
course)  and  a  solitaire  on  her  marriage  finger.  It's 
as  amusing  as  describing  one  for  the  police.  Have 
I  painted  the  lady  for  you,  Mr.  Vaughn?" 

"  Very  cleverly,  Miss  Seaton,  thank  you.  I  will 
look  about  for  her,  and  if  I  chance  upon  her,  I 
shall  say  that  a  lady  of  twenty  or  so,  blonde, 
blithe,  below  eight  feet,  with  pearls  in  her  hair 
and  some  very  ancient  lace  over  a  white  corded 
silk,  a  guest  of  mine,  whom  I  hope  often  to  meet, 
begs  her  attendance  in  the  library.  Au  revoir." 

And  with  a  bow  Edward  Vaughn  went  away, 
but  for  two  reasons  ;  first,  that  Madame  might  not 
fasten  herself  upon  him  for  the  rest  of  the  even- 
ing, and  next  because  he  might  as  well  consume 
his  time  in  this  way  as  any  other.  Besides,  he 
had  once  been  fond  of  blondes.  First  he  took  a 
stroll  in  the  park  among  the  lanterns.  Here  and 
there  he  found  a  couple  tete-d-tete  in  the  little 


138  The  Party  at  River  Nook. 

rustic  retreats, —  pagodas  that  he  had  seen  fit  to 
build  among  the  trees,  —  but  nowhere  Lady 
Blanche.  Then  he  went  back  to  the  dancers,  who 
were  too  busy  to  mark  his  presence  as  he  passed 
by  them.  She  was  not  there.  At  a  mere  venture 
he  passed  on  through  the  back  hall  to  the  green- 
house, which  formed  a  part  of  the  house,  and  by 
his  order  had  been  lighted  to-night  with  lanterns. 
He  opened  the  door.  Before  him,  and  with  her 
back  to  him,  was  the  lady  in  the  crimson  dress, 
looking  at  the  white  azaleas  near  her.  She  started 
at  the  sound  of  an  opening  door,  and  turned. 
Under  the  dim  light  she  appeared  as  a  stately 
blonde,  dressed  and  featured  as  her  cousin  had 
said.  Closely  observed,  and  she  had  the  bearing 
and  look  of  a  woman  bred  to  the  world,  but  with 
a  certain  half-veiled  consciousness,  hardly  to  be 
named  boldness,  as  of  one  who  has  knowledge  of 
many  and  even  bitter  things,  and  yet  would  wear 
the  front  of  an  artless  and  guileless  womanhood. 
In  after  years  Edward  Vaughn  thought  of  her  as 
he  remembered  her  that  night  —  as  he  thought  of 
those  perfumed  and  leisure-loving  Roman  matrons 
under  the  Caesars,  who  with  their  heathen  culture 
proved  how  woman's  elegance  and  beauty  may 
not  only  divorce  themselves  from  purity  and 
honor,  but  sink  still  lower  in  the  scale  of  ethics. 

"  Do  you  know  me,  Edward  Vaughn  ?  "  she  said 
in  a  low,  distinct  voice,  standing  still  in  her  place. 


The  Party  at  River  Nook,  139 

"  Pardon  me,  madam,  your  back  is  towards  the 
light  and  I  cannot  see  your  face." 

"  Come  nearer,  then." 

He  came  close  to  her,  and  they  stood  face  to 
face.  "  Do  you  know  me  now,  Edward  Vaughn  ?  " 

He  looked  at  her  for  a  long  time  in  silence,  as 
men  look,  not  so  much  through  flesh  and  blood, 
as  through  years  and  ages  and  supreme  moments 
that  are  also  ages ;  and  as  he  looked  his  face  grew 
pale  and  the  lips  rigid  as  if  the  heart  under  them 
was  turning  to  stone,  and  while  he  looked  the 
woman  before  him  moved  not ;  not  a  muscle  of  the 
face  nor  the  eyes  that  looked  in  his,  nor  even  did 
she  seem  to  breathe,  so  statue-like  she  seemed, 
waiting  for  him.  When  he  spoke  at  last  his 
voice  sounded  as  though  out  of  long  ago,  and 
from  a  realm  where  the  very  flame  of  a  merciless 
justice,  or  wrath,  whichever  it  might  be,  had 
blighted  everything. 

"Yes,  I  know  you  very  well.  You  are  the  ghost 
of  Blanche  De  Forest." 

"  Have  you  nothing  to  say  to  me,  Edward 
Vaughn  ?  " 

"  Nothing." 

"Did  you  never  love  me?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Have  you  forgotten  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  buried  you." 

"  Yet  here  I  stand  before  you." 


140  The  Party  at  River  Nook. 

"  I  tell  you  I  buried  Blanche  De  Forest  twenty 
years  ago ;  not  under  the  sea,  for  the  sea  gives  up 
its  dead,  nor  under  the  earth,  for  the  earth  and  its 
graves  shall  be  opened  at  the  Judgment  day  ;  but 
I  buried  her  in  a  grave  where  the  very  dust  and 
ashes  became  as  it  were  annihilate  ;  since  she  died  a 
suicide  in  a  wrong  which  slew  her  soul.  You  call 
yourself  Blanche  De  Forest.  The  woman  whose 
name  you  wear  perished,  I  tell  you,  years  ago." 

She  approached  her  right  hand  to  lay  it  on  his 
arm.  "Have  you  no  mercy,  Edward?"  He  drew 
back  with  a  repelling  motion.  "Pardon  me,  ma- 
dam, or  whatever  you  are,  you  are  my  guest,  and  I 
wish  to  be  civil.  I  beg  to  remind  you  that  you 
are  a  stranger  and  a  woman.  It  follows  that  you 
should  maintain  a  woman's  reserve.  I  do  not 
know  you." 

The  woman  answered  calmly  again,  "  This  is 
cruel,  Edward  Vaughn.  You  know  me  to  be 
Blanche  De  Forest.  You  know  that  you  loved 
me  once.  You  know  that  for  twenty  years  my 
life  has  been,  not  a  blank  (would  to  God  it  were), 
but  an  agony.  You  left  me  because  you  were 
proud,  and  of  hot  blood ;  you  made  me  a  widow 
where  I  could  not  weep  (and  yet  my  heart  wept 
blood)  ;  you  went  abroad  and  gave  up  your  career, 
which  you  knew  I  wished  and  was  proud  to  think 
of.  You  have  shunned  me  and  my  family,  even  to 
its  distant  branches,  ever  since.  You  have  buried 


The  Party  at  River  Nook.  141 

yourself  alive  away  from  everything.  I  confess 
the  wrong  I  did  you.  I  confessed  it  twenty  years 
ago.  Have  you  no  mercy?  Do  you  never  pray 
for  mercy?  If  God  has  pardoned  me  (and  I 
believe  I  have  paid  him  with  the  coin  of  more 
than  my  heart's  blood),  will  you  not  pardon  ?  " 

"  You  speak  of  Blanche  De  Forest.  I  repeat  I 
buried  her  years  ago.  I  do  not  understand  your 
right  to  question  me.  Are  you  her  ghost  ?  What 
are  you  ?  " 

"Edward  Vaughn,  you  had  a  man's  heart  once, 
and  a  man  is  never  cruel  to  a  woman  defenceless 
and  abased.  Look  at  me.  Is  it  not  bitter 
enough  for  me,  think  you  —  a  woman  —  for  me  to 
seek  you  out  in  your  own  house  and  tell  you 
what  I  have  ?  Will  you  make  me  drink  the  cup 
to  the  last  dregs  ?  Ghost  or  flesh,  and  I  have 
come  here  to  speak  to  you." 

"  Ghost  or  flesh,  then,  if  you  wish  it,  I  will 
answer  you.  But  come,"  he  said,  "  this  is  too 
public  a  place  for  a  man  to  discuss  such  pleasant 
matters  with  one  like  you.  We  may  be  inter- 
rupted any  moment.  Will  you  come  with  me  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  afraid  to  go  with  you,  Edward 
Vaughn,  to  the  gates  of  the  charnel-house  at  mid- 
night. Have  you  forgot  the  young  girl  (happy, 
then,  thank  God)  who  held  in  her  hands  the  target 
for  you  to  practise  your  rifle  shooting  with  ?  " 

"  Blanche  De  Forest  had  courage. 


142  The  Party  at  River  Nook. 

"But  come  now,"  he  continued,  "you  say  you 
are  a  living  creature  of  flesh  and  blood,  like  the 
rest  of  us.  I  say  you  are  a  ghost,  or  something 
worse.  You  ask  me  something.  I  have  a  fancy. 
Ghost  that  you  are,  or  woman  that  you  may  be, 
allow  me  to  make  you  an  offering  before  we  go. 
This  is  a  carnival  night  in  my  house.  You  wear 
no  flowers.  You  are  dressed  too  plainly,  lady. 
Allow  me  to  dress  your  hair  with  a  few  flowers, 
whosever  bride  you  are." 

The  woman  kept  her  place,  but  did  not  answer. 
"  Here  are  orange  flowers,  bridal,"  he  went  on,  "  but 
then  you  may  be  a  ghost,  you  know ;  and  I  would 
not  have  the  flavor  of  the  grave  wrought  into 
them ;  and  here  are  white  camellias,  in  a  blonde's 
hair  no  trifle  ;  my  mother  wore  camellias  at  her 
wedding.  Not  them.  Well,  here  is  heliotrope  ;  and 
just  one  passion  flower,  not  too  broad,  and  gay  a 
trifle,  —  allow  me  to  offer  these.  Bend  down  your 
head."  A  proud  head  bent  down  without  a  word, 
but  the  red  blood  throbbed  in  her  temples  almost 
audibly.  He  entwined  the  flowers  into  the  blonde 
hair,  and  the  proud  head  rose  up  again. 

"  I  am  waiting  for  you,  Edward  Vaughn,"  she 
said. 

"  Come,  then." 

She  followed  him  to  the  end  of  the  conservatory 
farthest  from  the  dancers.  He  took  from  his 
pocket  a  key,  and  unlocked  a  door.  They  passed 


The  Party  at  River  Nook.  143 

out  into  the  night  air.  The  strains  of  music  and 
the  feet  of  the  dancers  were  heard  indoors,  and 
without  were  the  cool,  pure  stars  rising  to  the 
zenith. 

"  This  way,"  he  said,  and  she  followed  him.  He 
took  the  path  that  turned  to  the  left.  It  brought 
them  in  a  few  minutes'  walk  to  what  seemed  a 
broad,  high  house  of  brick,  without  windows.  It 
had  one  door.,  A  second  key  opened  it. 

"  Enter,''  he  said,  and  they  went  in.  He  locked 
the  door,  and  replaced  the  key  in  his  pocket.  The 
room  in  which  they  found  themselves  was  lighted 
from  the  top  by  daylight.  Now,  at  the  further 
end  a  single  lamp  seemed  hung  low  down  from  the 
ceiling.  It  was  a  singular  sort  of  museum  of 
quaint  things.  The  floor  was  vacant ;  but  round 
the  sides  were  ranged  in  order  a  grotesque  and 
even  ghastly  medley.  Wooden  idols  from  India  ; 
knights  in  armor ;  here  and  there  a  skeleton  ;  bat- 
tle-axes and  swords  of  all  shapes  and  legends  made 
into  curious  emblems ;  military  harness  and  cloth- 
ing hung  from  pegs ;  stone  axes  and  mortars  from 
Xorway ;  a  bow  and  quiver  of  arrows  ;  —  a  thou- 
sand things,  apparently  of  all  climes  and  races,  were 
there.  The  two  passed  up  the  vacant  floor  to  the 
lighted  lamp.  Under  it,  upon  four  stout  stones, 
rested  a  sarcophagus  of  red-flecked  Egyptian 
granite.  The  stone  lid  was  off,  and  its  place  was 
occupied  by  a  covering  of  glass. 


144  The  Party  at  River  Nook. 

Then  Edward  Vaughn  turned  to  the  woman 
with  him. 

"  You  say  you  are  Blanche  De  Forest.     She  died 
twenty  years  ago.     You  are  something.     I  said  — 
a  ghost.     Whatever  you  are,  you  dare  to  speak  for 
her?" 

"  I  do." 

"  Well,  then,  I  will  answer  as  if  to  her.  I  do 
not  mind  answering  to  annihilation,  for  the  novelty 
of  the  thing.  Go  on." 

"  I  will  go  on.  I  ask  you,  Did  you  not  love 
ine  once  ?  " 

He  laughed  outright. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  "  look  down  there.  Under 
that  glass  is  an  Egyptian  mummy;  a  woman,  like 
you,  the  writing  says.  Look  at  the  place  where 
the  eyes  were ;  at  that  black  parchment  of  the 
shrivelled  skin  ;  and  the  yellow  dead  hair  over  it ; 
look  at  the  swathed  hands  and  arms  laid  in  that 
rest  of  three  thousand  years.  Is  not  that  woman 
dead  enough?  Yet  she  is  not  so  dead  as  Blanche 
De  Forest  is.  She  is  not  even  the  dust  and  ashes 
of  a  dead  mummy.  The  death  she  died  consumed 
the  very  dust  and  ashes." 

There  was  no  answer. 

"  Yes,  I  did  love  Blanche  De  Forest  once,"  he 
went  on ;  "I  loved  her  more  than  man  or  woman, 
more  than  God.  She  intoxicated  my  very  soul 
with  love.  All  the  music  and  beauty  of  this  world, 


The  Party  at  River  Xook.  145 

the  very  stars  of  God,  centred  themselves  in  her ; 
and  without  her  not  even  the  desert,  only  the 
nothingness  that  destroys  the  desert,  and  leaves  a 
man  —  itself.  I  would  have  braved  toil,  blame, 
agony  —  everything  but  shame  —  for  her.  I  would 
have  died  for  her  as  a  man  may  die,  facing  fire, 
flood,  battle,  the  very  flame  out  of  the  skies ;  more 
than  that,  I  would  have  been  blotted  out  of  being, 
and  my  last  thought  as  I  passed  forever  to  extinc- 
tion should  have  been  hers.  She  destroyed  her- 
self, not  me,  and  left  me  nothingness.  With  that 
I  cannot  be  even  angry.  I  may  stand  beside  my 
enemy's  grave  in  wrath ;  but  with  a  thing  annihil- 
ated I  cannot  even  console  myself  by  quarrelling." 

"You  do  not  hate  me,  then,  Edward  Vaughn?" 

"  I  do  not  hate  you." 

"  You  forgive  me  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  forgive  you.  You  do  not  even  exist 
for  me  to  forgive." 

"  This  is  not  true.  I  stand  close  to  you  before 
your  eyes.  I  speak  to  you.  I  tell  you  who  I  am. 
I  identify  myself  by  telling  you  what  you  and  I 
only  know,  and  yet  you  say  I  am  not  even  a  dream. 
I  am  a  nothing.  Is  not  this  trifling?" 

"Not  at  all.  Suppose  God  (I  wish  to  say  it 
reverently ;  for,  though  I  have  not  a  shade  of  piety 
about  me,  I  am  too  wise  to  wish  to  insult  the  Mas- 
ter of  my  destinies)  — if  God  were  to  do  something 
plainly  against  our  human  and  right  conceptions 


146  The  Party  at  River  Nook. 

of  Him — be  unjust,  for  instance — you  might  say 
that  He  still  existed ;  but  yet  He  would  have  per- 
ished out  of  this  world's  respect,  and  ceased,  by 
this  world's  conscience,  to  be.  Say  I  loved  you. 
By  your  own  act  womanhood  perished  in  you,  all 
that  I  had  loved  in  you.  I  loved  you — soul,  not 
body.  You  wrought  suicide  upon  your  soul.  I 
might  pray,  I  might  even  die  for  you.  I  could 
not  restore  you  to  life  again.  I  do  not  wish  to  be 
cruel.  I  have  never  spoken  these  twenty  years  of 
you  to  any.  I  do  not  charge  the  worst  things  on 
you.  I  will  not  go  through  the  story.  You  and  I 
know  it.  Know  that  what  I  worshipped  perished 
before  my  eyes.  I  did  go  away.  My  life  has  been 
a  shipwreck.  I  have  been  mere  dust  and  ashes  in 
the  balances  of  great  actions.  The  Universe  is  to 
me  a  rent  house  framed  out  of  skeletons,  that  may 
fall  any  day,  and  I  forehear  the  clatter  of  the 
bones.  The  temple  has  perished  with  the  idol." 
"  Have  you  no  forgiveness,  Edward  Vaughn  ?  " 
"  I  have  answered  that  question  already." 
The  woman  lifted  herself  to  her  full  height,  and 
looked  at  him.  She  was  not  young,  but  still  a 
queenly  woman,  who  might  have  graced  a  throne. 
Her  bosom  rose  and  sank  with  the  great  emotion. 
She  held  out  both  her  arms  towards  him  without 
moving  from  her  place.  The  solitaire  upon  her  mar- 
riage finger  gleamed  with  a  strange  brilliancy  — 
her  engagement  ring,  and  he  knew  it. 


The  Party  at  River  Nook.  147 

"I  ask  you,  Will  you  come  to  me,  Edward 
Vaughn  ? " 

"I  will  never  come  to  you,  Blanche  De  Forest." 

"  I  summon  you  with  my  heart,  true  and  loyal 
to  you,  to  come  to  me." 

"  Between  me  and  you  there  is  a  great  gulf 
fixed.  I  did  not  fix  it.  I  cannot  pass  it." 

The  woman  bowed  herself  down  upon  the  mar- 
ble over  the  ashes  of  her  Egyptian  sister.  There 
were  no  tears,  not  a  sob  or  word,  but  the  bent 
woman  —  golden  tresses  above  the  dead  mummy 
locks,  living  flesh  over  the  dead  dust  —  first  greatly 
moved  with  agony,  grew  calm  as  if  in  prayer. 
Then,  after  the  long  unbroken  silence,  she  rose  up 
again,  pale,  firm,  and  looking  straight  into  Edward 
Vaughn's  eyes.  She  motioned  with  her  right 
hand  towards  the  door.  She  went  before  him. 
He  unlocked  the  door,  and  they  passed  out.  On 
the  stone  steps  they  halted.  The  pale  stars  had 
reached  the  zenith.  She  looked  up  to  them. 
Then  she  said,  hi  a  low  Sibylline  chaunt,  thrice,  not 
as  though  to  be  heard  of  men,  but  as  if  to  God, 
these  words,  "  Forever,  never ;  never,  forever." 
And  the  stars,  looking  down  upon  the  dust  and 
ashes  that  suffered  so,  made  no  answer.  But  One 
above  the  stars,  and  who  created  them,  had  an- 
swered long  ago,  "  Woman,  thy  sins  be  forgiven 
thee ; "  and  holy  men  moved  of  the  Holy  Ghost 
had  written  down  from  Him  this  great  beatitude : 


148  The  Party  at  River  Nook. 

"Blessed  are  the  merciful;  for  they  shall  obtain 
mercy." 

They  went  toward  the  house  in  silence, 
the  woman  leading  the  way.  As  they  came  to 
where  the  path  divided  into  two,  she  stopped. 
"  Go  on,"  was  what  she  said.  Edward  Vaughn 
went  past  her,  and  then  she  turned  down  by  the 
artificial  lake  which  came  up  close  to  the  rear  of 
the  house  to  the  left.  There  were  no  questions 
asked  between  them.  He  made  his  appearance  in 
the  hall  door  just  as  the  dancers,  tired  out  with 
their  sport,  were  scattered  about  in  groups  waiting 
supper.  He  had  been  missed  by  several,  and  there 
had  been  diverse  guesses  as  to  his  whereabouts. 
"  Ladies,"  he  said,  bowing  to  the  groups  of  young 
folks  that  half-stared  at  him  as  he  came  in,  "have 
you  finished  dancing?  I  am  a  busy  man  to- 
night, and  have  been  obliged  to  overlook  some 
things  out  of  doors.  The  house  is  yours,  you 
know,  and  I  beg  you  to  amuse  yourselves  in  it  in 
your  own  way.  I  make  but  a  poor  hand  enter- 
taining company,  for  I  am  out  of  practice." 

"  Oh,  we  have  amused  ourselves,  Mr.  Vaughn," 
said  several. 

"Have  you  found  Cousin  Blanche?"  said  Miss 
Isabel  Seaton,  emerging  from  one  of  the  groups. 

"Found  her?     Certainly." 

"Where,  pray?" 

"  Oh,  somewhere   in  the  world  and   under  the 


The  Part//  at  River  Xook.  149 

stars.  Excuse  me.  To  be  more  definite,  I  found 
her  in  the  conservatory,  just  six  feet  from  the 
door,  looking  at  my  white  azaleas. " 

"  But  where  is  she  ?  Did  you  leave  her  where 
you  found  her?" 

"  She?  Oh,  she  flew  away  from  me, —  an  angel 
with  wings,  of  course.  But  come,  I  must  report 
myself  to  madam.  Will  you  take  my  arm?"  and 
he  offered  her  his  arm  with  a  very  elaborate  bow 
indeed. 

She  took  his  arm  and  said :  "  What  do  you 
think  of  Blanche?" 

"Think!  she  is  charming,  adorable,  a  magnifi- 
cent blonde.  Allow  me  to  praise  one  woman  to 
another.  You  remind  me  of  her,  only  you  are 
younger.  Besides,  she  refuses  all  my  addresses. 
So  I  shall  count  myself  in  luck  and  devote  myself 
to  you  ;  that  is  to  say,  if  your  majesty  will  con- 
sent to  be  queen  to  a  new  vassal." 

"  Gentlemen  say  always  what  they  mean,  I  know, 
and  of  course  I  believe  every  word  of  that  non- 
sense. But  here  is  Ma  waiting  for  you. 

"  Mr.  Vaughn  has  found  Blanche,  Ma." 

"  I  have  indeed  found  the  lost  lady,  your  niece, 
madam,  and  a  rare  creature  she  is.  I  find  her  to 
have  a  philosophical  mood,  and  we  had  a  charm- 
ing talk  about  the  mysteries  of  the  Universe;  a 
trifle  too  austere,  perhaps,  but  for  me,  charming.  I 
congratulate  you  upon  your  niece." 


150  The  Party  at  River  Nook. 

"  But  where  is  Blanche  ?  " 

"  Your  niece  seems  to  have  a  smack  of  romance 
about  her,  and  I  could  not  persuade  her  to  come 
indoors.  She  went  down  the  avenue,  I  fancy,  to 
watch  the  stars,  in  an  astronomical  mood,  maybe, 
or  to  catch  the  breath  of  the  night  air  on  the  fresh 
leaves  of  the  elms,  or  perhaps  to  meditate  a  poem, 
tragedy,  or  comedy,  who  knows.  A  woman, 
madam  !  You  may  count  stars,  or  weigh  sunshine, 
or  box  up  the  chemical  forces  of  light,  or  do  any 
other  subtle  labor,  but  who  weighs  or  knows  a 
woman.  Her  ways  are  past  finding  out.  If  you 
will  take  it  as  a  compliment,  I  will  add  that  the 
lady  is  a  little  odd." 

"  Blanche  is  odd,"  said  madam,  "  and  used  to 
have  her  own  way,  but  this  behavior  I  can't  un- 
derstand." 

"  At  any  rate,  as  she  seems  to  be  of  age,  and  there 
are  no  ogres  or  ghost  knights  on  my  premises  to 
consume  or  carry  her  away  to  their  enchanted 
castle,  we  may  as  well  let  her  alone  to  enjoy  her- 
self. This  is  Liberty  Hall  to-night." 

"  But  come,"  he  said,  as  a  demure,  middle-aged 
servant  came  and  whispered  something  in  his  ear, 
"Supper,  they  say.  Allow  me,  madam,  to  offer 
you  an  arm,  and  you,  Miss  Seatori  another,"  arid 
sandwiched  between  age  and  beauty  Edward 
Vaughn,  the  proper  saintly  man,  led  the  way  to 
supper. 


The  Party  at  River  Nook.  151 

"  Allow  me,  madam,  to  offer  you  this  chair  next 
the  sideboard ;  an  old  chair  of  my  grandmother's 
housekeeping,  by  the  way,  one  of  the  few  family 
relics  I  have  ;  and  you,  Miss  Isabel''  (in  a  lower 
tone),  "please  stand  here  by  me  while  these  people 
are  duly  fed." 

Whatever  else  Aubrey  folks  might  lack,  they 
never  wanted  an  appetite ;  and  with  a  crush  and 
crumpling  of  gauze  and  satin,  and  blushing  with 
the  heat,  as  in  supper  rooms  they  always  do,  the 
multitude  were  fed.  Mr.  Vaughn  looked  to  the 
serving  his  guests,  interspersing  his  labors  with 
remarks  to  Miss  Isabel,  beside  him. 

"  How  do  you  like  my  guests,  Miss  Seaton  ?  " 

"I  know  very  few  of  them.  Very  nice  people, 
I  dare  say  —  a  little  countrified.  I  really  haven't 
taken  the  pains  to  see." 

"  Exclusive,  my  lady,  a  little,  ah  ?  Bred  to 
something  different.  Very  well,  it  won't  harm  you 
to  breathe  the  same  air  an  hour  or  so  ;  do  you  sup- 
pose they  are  fed  yet?" 

"  The  tables  look  like  it,  but  how  should  I  know 
how  much  people  eat?  You  should  consult  your 
housekeeper." 

There  was  an  expression  on  the  host's  face  very 
like  a  grin.  "  Housekeeper  !  "  he  said,  "  that  is 
what  I  lack  and  what  I  want.  This  is  a  regular 
hermitage, —  not  a  woman  in  it.  My  French  cook 
is  nearest  it,  for  I  believe  he  would  cut  his  throat 


152  The  Party  at  Hirer  Nook. 

if  the  soup  were  burnt,  and  it  takes  the  whole 
house  to  keep  him  in  sorts.  " 

"  Is  it  so  very  difficult  to  get  a  housekeeper  ? 
Advertise  and  pay  well.  Ma  could  furnish  a  half- 
dozen  for  you." 

"  The  housekeeper  I  want  I  won't  pay  for.  She 
must  come  as  a  Sister  of  Charity,  without  money 
and  without  price.  Quite  from  love  of  the  thing, 
you  know." 

"  It  will  do  you  no  good  to  advertise  with  those 
terms  in  the  bill." 

"  But  I  have  advertised  already,  and  I  mean  to 
keep  advertising." 

"  When  you  get  one,  be  so  kind  as  to  introduce 
her  to  me,  will  you  ?  I  hate  housekeeping." 

"  Certainly.  And  now  will  you  dance  with 
me?" 

"  What?    I  did  not  understand." 

"  Excuse  me.  As  a  very  old  gentleman,  you 
will  allow  me  to  remark  something.  Several  of 
my  very  kind  guests  are  watching  us  two.  When 
a  gentleman  asks  you  anything,  never  allow  your- 
self to  bend  towards  him,  as  though  you  cared  a 
trifle  for  what  he  said ;  and  you  are  doing  that. 
Be  rigid,  ice,  anything,  before  the  gossips." 

"  Most  venerable  ancient  master,  I  obey  you. 
What  did  you  ask  me  ?  " 

"I  asked  you  to  dance  with  me.  I  have  not 
danced  to-night." 


The  Party  at  River  Nook.  153 

"  Will  your  age  permit  it?  " 

"I  am  not  certain." 

"  Then  I  will  it.     Yes.     I  will  dance  with  you." 

Jt  was  late  when  they  returned  to  the  dance, 
and  many  who  had  been  fed  had  gone,  but  a  few 
unconquerable  spirits  made  ready  to  dance  again 
as  Mr.  Vaughn  led  in  Miss  Seaton,  while  the  few 
dowagers  and  idlers  who  still  remained  grouped 
themselves  about  the  doors  to  watch  the  dance. 
The  two,  as  they  stood  together,  were  a  marked 
pair.  Edward  Vaughn,  though  not  young,  was 
still  a  tall,  broad-shouldered,  brown-haired,  firm- 
featured  man  of  about  forty,  maybe.  His  face  was 
that  of  a  man  who  had  lived  well  and  thought 
hard  somehow,  so  that  his  brain  under  the  broad 
forehead  had  stamped  down  the  traces  of  good 
living  beneath  a  look  of  intellect  and  culture. 
Otherwise,  upon  a  closer  view,  his  face  pronounced 
and  deeply  lined,  yet  covering  generally  the 
thought  behind  it,  reminded  one  of  those  ancient 
manuscripts  where  one  writing  blots  out  another, 
and  various  scribes  have  erased  or  blurred  the  more 
ancient  legends  for  their  own  inscriptions.  Both 
.his  look  and  manner  would  have  puzzled  most 
men  and  women.  He  was  bland  or  curt  as  the 
mood  was  on  him.  A  soft- worded  man,  who  some- 
how impressed  you  with  a  sense  of  the  tiger  in  him, 
and  to  those  who  knew  him  most  a  riddle,  of  whom 
they  could  not  tell  whether  he  laughed  or  scorned. 


154  The  Party  at  River  Nook. 

A  man  whom  most  women  would  be  half-afraid  of, 
and  whom  only  a  very  singular  woman  would  find 
it  easy  to  really  love.  Isabel  Seaton  was  young 
in  all  but  her  heart ;  and  that  had  aged  beyond 
her  years  in  the  atmosphere  of  a  city's  dissipation. 
But  the  wisdom  which  waited  on  her  age  was  of 
that  sort  which  is  never  over  fresh  or  pure  ;  while 
some  of  the  more  subtle  elements  that  dwell  in 
the  heart  of  maidenhood  had  become  a  little  soiled 
and  wilted,  as  the  late  violets  always  wilt  in  the 
June  sun.  To  be  just,  she  was  always  well  bred 
and  dressed,  and  when  the  waltz  was  ended,  and, 
aglow  with  the  excitement  and  music  of  the  dance, 
she  stood  proudly  by  his  side,  she  was  indeed  a 
beautiful  creature,  and  of  the  angels  that  are  bred 
in  ball-rooms.  "  How  very  like  Blanche  De  Forest 
twenty  years  ago,"  he  thought. 

Meanwhile  Madame  Seaton  had  made  inquiries 
for  her  niece.  She  had  come  in  and  gone  to  the 
ladies'  dressing-room,  a  servant  said,  while  the 
guests  were  at  supper ;  and  one  of  the  coachmen 
had  met  a  person  answering  her  description  half- 
way to  town.  It  was  not  a  little  strange.  So, 
shortly,  the  party  broke  up.  The  host  led  the 
Seatons  to  their  carriage.  "  Remember,"  he  said 
as  he  closed  the  door ;  and  the  blonde  answered 
with  a  nod  and  a  smile  her  "  Yes." 

The  two  ladies  kept  silence  till  almost  home. 

"  A  delightful  man,  is  he  not,  Belle  ?  " 


The  Party  at  River  Nook.  155 

"Who,  Ma?" 

"Mr.  Vaughn." 

"  I  dare  say,  but  a  little  conceited,  as  all  men 
are,  and  old,  you  know."  Then  both  lapsed  into 
silence  again,  and  under  the  cloaks  one  heart  heard 
the  question  that  had  been  put  to  it,  lip  to  ear,  in 
the  whirl  of  the  dance.  "  When  may  I  come  to 
see  you  ?  "  and  knew  the  answer:  "  Any  time."  It 
was  wise  to  remind  her  mother  that  Edward 
Vaughn  was  old.  Mrs.  Seaton  found  that  her 
niece  had  come  safely  home  and  was  in  her  cham- 
ber. At  the  breakfast  table  next  morning  Blanche 
De  Forest  came  very  near  a  lecture.  But  she 
stopped  it  by  saying  in  an  emphatic  manner,  "  I 
did  not  like  the  company  and  came  away.  Please 
do  not  trouble  me  about  the  trifle ; "  and  the 
three  women  ate  breakfast  and  dropped  the  sub- 
ject. 

Edward  Vaughn,  after  the  guests  were  gone, 
went  up  to  the  smoking  room  with  a  young  friend 
who  had  come  up  from  town  to  spend  a  week  with 
him. 

"  Well,  Frank,  how  have  you  enjoyed  yourself  ?  " 
said  the  elder,  as  the  two  in  easy  chairs  confronted 
each  other  beside  the  fire  of  cannel  coal  which 
was  fast  going  out  in  ashes. 

"Excellently  well,  Vaughn.  I  think  these 
country  girls  are  fresher  than  our  ladies.  I  have 
seen  a  dozen  at  least  very  pretty.  How  have  you 
fared  ? " 


156  The  Party  at  River  Nook. 

"Fared?     I  hate  parties." 

"  Why  then,  in  the  name  of  all  the  gods  at  once, 
did  you  have  one  ?  " 

"  Why  ?  Because  I  took  the  fancy  —  for  a 
change  —  to  amuse  myself.  I  wanted  to  see  if  the 
women  hereabouts  were  like  all  the  rest.  They 
are.  I  vow  I  hate  all  women." 

"  All,  Vaughn  ?  It  didn't  look  very  much  like  it 
when  you  were  waltzing  with  the  blonde." 

"  But  I  do,  the  blonde  to  the  contrary.  You 
were  with  me,  I  think,  Frank,  among  the  Marionites 
in  Lebanon.  You  remember  I  offered  to  buy  for 
ten  thousand  piastres  the  sheik's  youngest  daugh- 
ter. You  know  the  offer  was  much  talked  about 
among  the  tents,  and  how  vehemently  the  old  man 
declined  my  offer.  But  you  never  knew  how 
that  same  daughter,  a  mere  child  at  that,  fifteen 
or  so,  sent  me  word  by  an  old  hag  that  very  night 
that  if  I  would  mend  my  offer  two  thousand  pias- 
tres more,  papa,  she  thought,  would  sell,  and  that  she, 
moreover,  had  always  liked  the  Franks.  I  did  not 
want  her  at  any  price,  for  Syrian  women  are  too 
afraid  of  cold  water  for  my  taste." 

"  But  what  has  that  to  do  with  the .  matter, 
Vaughn?" 

"  Merely  this :  that  whether  among  the  sheiks  of 
Lebanon  or  my  elms,  women  are  about  alike,  —  a 
little  crooked  and  sometimes  worse." 

"  You  are  not  orthodox  on  that  point." 


The  Party  at  .River  Nook.  157 

"They   are    not   orthodox    on    several    points, 

Frank." 

"  But  you  like  the  blonde,  though  ?'' 

"  Like  her  ?  Well,  if  you  insist  upon  it,  I  adore 

her." 


CHAPTER     XV. 

AFTER   THE   PARTY. 

IN  this  history  of  Aubrey  parish,  grave  things 
and  gay  are  mixed  together.  The  reason  is  that 
life  is  likewise  mixed.  The  dancers  confront  the 
prayers.  The  temples  not  seldom  are  neighbors 
to  the  shambles. 

The  day  after  the  party  at  River  Nook  two  men 
knocked  at  the  door  of  St.  Clement's  rectory. 
They  were  the  Reverend  Carlos  Lefingwell  and 
Deacon  Hobbs,  the  two  chief  dignitaries  of  the 
meeting-house.  They  found  Mr.  Ardenne  in  his 
library.  The  latter,  though  a  little  surprised  at 
the  novel  visit,  especially  from  Deacon  Hobbs, 
greeted  them  cordially,  and  they  proceeded  to 
business. 

"  We  have  called  upon  you,  Mr.  Ardenne,"  the 
minister  said,  "  at  the  desire  of  some  of  our  people, 
to  ask  you  to  take  part  in  the  religious  exercises 
which  we  are  carrying  on  at  present.  I  am  aware 
that  your  clergy  are  not  in  the  habit  of  doing  so, 
and  I  am  not  quite  sure  myself  that  we  can  mix 
such  matters ;  but  my  people  wished  it,  and  I  have 
therefore  come." 


After  the  Party.  159 

"  That  may  be  what  our  parson  came  for,"  broke 
in  Deacon  Hobbs,  "  but  it  is  not  all  of  it,  as  I 
understand  it.  It  has  been  thought  best  by  some 
of  us,  Mr.  Ardenne,  considering  the  present  dearth 
of  the  land  in  this  locality  and  the  abundant  out- 
pouring of  the  Spirit  in  the  pleasant  places  of  Zion 
at  our  meetings  across  the  green,  to  call  upon  you 
and  present  you  with  an  invitation,  hoping  you 
might  feel  it  to  be  your  duty  to  be  present  on 
these  occasions ;  and  I  am  empowered  by  the 
brethren  to  invite  you  to  make  such  remarks  at 
the  aforesaid  meetings  as  may  be  for  the  edification 
of  the  assembly.  And  furthermore,  it  has  occurred 
to  me  in  my  meditations  to  bring  to  your  notice  a 
shocking  instance  of  depravity,  such  as  the  child- 
ren of  this  world,  who  are  wise,  as  the  Bible  tells 
us,  in  their  day  and  generation,  are  often  guilty 
of.  It  has  transpired  that  there  was  a  very  god- 
less party  last  night  at  a  certain  Mr.  Edward 
Vaughn's  across  the  river,  where  they  had  danc- 
ing and  carousing  to  a  very  late  hour;  and  I  am 
compelled  to  say  that  not  only  were  some  of  our 
own  young  people  there,  for  which  the  elders  will 
call  them  to  a  righteous  account,  but  a  large  num- 
ber of  your  parishioners,  and  it  has  occurred  to  me 
to  suggest  to  you  whether  under  the  circumstances 
it  would  not  be  well  for  you  to  deliver  next  Sun- 
day a  discourse  against  dancing,  and  to  exhort  the 
ungodly  to  avoid  this  snare  of  the  devil  and  to 


160  After  the  Parti/. 

flee  from  the  wrath  to  come."  Deacon  Hobbs 
was  famous  for  his  orations.  He  usually  said  noth- 
ing, and  used  a  deal  of  words  to  say  it. 

"  Well,  gentlemen,"  said  Mr.  Ardenne,  when 
the  Deacon  had  finished,  "  here  are  several  mat- 
ters which  you  have  been  so  kind  as  to  bring  to 
my  notice ;  and  though  I  have  no  wish  to  engage 
in  a  discussion — it  usually  does  no  good,  —  I  have 
not  the  slightest  objection  to  talk  these  matters 
over  with  you,  provided  it  can  be  done  in  good 
nature.  Am  I  to  understand,  then,  that  I  shall 
not  give  offence  if  I  tell  you  the  principles  by 
which  we  are  governed  in  all  such  matters  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  said  the  minister. 

But  before  we  listen  to  Mr.  Ardenne,  we  will 
look  at  his  visitors.  The  Rev.  Carlos  Lefingwell 
was  a  young  man  with  a  thin,  gentle,  scholarly 
face  and  a  habit  of  stooping  when  he  walked,  as 
students  often  have.  His  was  a  pure  and  truthful 
nature,  that  grace  had  wrought  upon.  His  religion 
had  been  clarified  and  softened  in  its  passage 
through  a  broad  and  gentle  heart,  so  that  when  it 
appeared  to  men  one  missed  a  certain  flintiness 
such  as  his  more  ancient  brethren  showed.  His 
very  learning  (for  he  had  that)  made  him  tolerant 
of  those  elegant  arts  which  his  elders  flouted,  and, 
broken  away  as  he  was  from  antiquity,  there 
were  many  things  therein  which  he  admired. 
But  his  religion  was  still  Puritan.  This  showed 


After  the  Parti/.  161 

itself  in  a  certain  reckless  disregard  of  time 
or  circumstance  when  lie  undertook  to  plant 
among  men  what  he  thought  to  be  germs  of 
truth.  —  as  though  one  planted  roses  in  winter  or 
on  a  rock  because  roses  are  always  beautiful.  He 
loved  truth  with  a  fervent,  constant  love  and  set 
out  to  follow  it,  as  one  follows  a  star  across  country, 
minding  neither  ditch,  nor  precipice,  nor  river  that 
lies  across  his  path. 

He  showed  a  certain  Transcendentalism  by  de- 
clining form  and  establishment  in  religion,  leav- 
ing Faith  to  be  grasped  out  of  an  atmosphere,  and 
this,  too,  in  a  world  where  all  life  contains  itself  in 
form,  from  plant  to  man,  and  proceeds  by  ordin- 
ances. In  this  he  was  like  his  elders,  who  were 
always  leaving  religion  in  the  air,  in  spite  of  the 
fact  that  man  walks  with  two  feet  on  the  earth, 
and  subsists  physically  and  spiritually  by  what  is 
brought  to  his  complex  nature  in  fixed  and  min- 
utely ordered  conduits  from  a  reservoir. 

The  rector  and  himself  had  long  been  friends, 
and  were  drawn  together  by  a  certain  tie  of  a 
common  human  nature,  which,  while  it  does  not 
laugh  at  creeds,  is  yet  that  more  ancient  charity 
which  sees  in  all  pure  souls  a  white,  shining 
brotherhood  of  man.  And  though  they  had  often 
disputed,  as  Christians  may,  some  question  of  theo- 
logy, neither  their  words  nor  hearts  had  ever  any 
flavor  of  bitterness ;  and  when,  after  their  talks, 


162  After  the  Party. 

Mr.  Ardenne  in  his  study  had  gone  over  it  all 
again,  he  had  often  prayed  that  in  the  Hereafter 
they  two,  without  any  partition  wall  of  difference, 
might  meet  once  more  in  the  Great  Home  where 
the  same  charity  blends  all  into  one  family. 

Deacon  Hobbs  was  a  very  different  man.  He 
was  a  broken  cistern  that  held  only  the  dregs  of 
his  religion ;  and  in  all  religions  there  are  of 
course  dregs,  but  in  this  man  there  was  nothing 
else.  A  lank,  bony  hulk  of  a  man,  with  a  slouch- 
ing, schoolboy's  gait  and  coarse,  hard  face,  with 
grayish  eyes,  prepared  one  to  find  in  him  a  coarse- 
grained, mismade  nature  ;  and  his  looks  were  the 
only  thing  about  him  that  never  lied.  He  had  had 
several  wives,  and  frequently  expressed  the  fear 
that  he  should  survive  them  all,  as  he  counted 
their  graves  in  the  burying  ground  with  no  more 
feeling  than  though  they  had  been  hills  of  corn. 
Yet  he  was  always  talking  of  the  privileges  of 
woman,  and  starving  his  female  mill  hands  with 
the  meanest  pay.  His  honesty  was  that  which  es- 
capes the  law,  but  steals,  against  mere  moral  justice, 
every  chance  it  gets.  His  charity  was  such  as  gave 
large  sums  in  places  where  the  public  press  would 
sound  it  to  the  world  as  given  by  Deacon  Hobbs. 
His  temperance  was  of  such  lofty  order,  that  when 
a  foreign  artist  freely  sang  in  a  charity  concert  to 
improve  the  graveyard  where  his  wives  rested 
from  all  their  labors,  the  bottle  of  wine  the  former 


After  the  Party,  163 

drank  at  the  Deacon's  table  was  charged  to  the 
graveyard  corporation,  since  lie  would  have  the 
world  to  understand  he  never  meddled  with  the 
unclean  thing.  Yet  he  always  had  a  hankering 
after  the  sourest  cider,  and  turned  an  honest  penny 
by  making  toddy  sticks  to  assist  the  vices  of  a  sin- 
ful world.  By  nature  he  was  a  very  earthy  man, 
and  by  grace  working  on  such  a  scanty  soil  as  his, 
very  like  a  desert.  There  w«re  no  juices  in  his 
piety,  but  that  was  always  wooden  and  emitted 
a  creaking  noise  whenever  it  was  put  to  proof,  as 
a  crazy  house  sounds  with  the  wind  blowing 
through  it ;  yet  his  were  the  longest  prayers  of 
any.  He  was  severe  upon  his  neighbors'  sins,  and 
in  the  meeting-house,  where  he  held  a  sort  of  lay 
episcopate,  he  was  fertile  in  advices  as  to  how 
they  all  should  behave.  When  he  began  to  ex- 
hort the  ungodly  went  to  sleep,  and  when  he 
stopped  the  religious  sung  a  psalm  to  deepen  their 
devotions ;  and  everywhere  that  human  speech 
was  possible  his  genius  compelled  him  always  to 
be  always  talking.  His  oratory,  never  select,  was 
ever  endless,  and,  like  a  circle,  ended  where  it  be- 
gan—  in  itself.  In  short,  he  was  what  no  religious 
man  ever  was,  and  what  few  honest,  open  sinners 
would  ever  descend  to  be  ;  one  of  those  grotesque 
mortals  suffered  to  dwell  with  men  to  keep  them 
back  from  too  much  happiness. 

Such  were  the  two  men  in  Mr.  Ardenne's  library. 


164  After  the  Parti/. 

"  You  have  asked  me,  in  the  first  place,"  con- 
tinued the  latter,  "  to  join  in  what  arc  called  revival 
services ;  and  I  wish  to  show  you  why  I  cannot  do 
that.  I  cannot  do  it  because  it  is  against  the 
genius  of  our  religion,  and  whoever  crosses  the 
spirit  of  his  own  creed  has  gone  astray  towards 
disaster.  You  believe  in  revivals ;  we  do  not,  at 
least  as  the  word  is  used,  but  rather  in  a  revival 
which  attends  a  Christian  from  his  cradle  to  his 
grave.  I  do  not  wish  to  say  that  revivals  do  no 
good,  for  I  do  not  know  what  mercies  in  what  un- 
usual ways  God  may  bestow  on  men  ;  but  only 
that  they  are  based  on  an  idea  which  is  not  ours. 
By  revivals  you  seize  upon  a  man's  mind  with  a 
sudden  wrench  and  haul  him  —  God's  grace,  as  you 
say,  assisting  him  and  you — into  the  ark.  Our 
way  is  less  violent.  The  Church,  in  her  province, 
does  what  the  earth  does  in  hers.  The  earth  nur- 
tures the  germ  hid  in  her  bosom  up  to  the  blade  in 
spring,  and  through  all  the  summer  brings  it  to  the 
full  ear  in  fall.  So  the  Church  takes  the  germ  of 
a  soul  to  her  bosom,  and  through  its  seasons  here 
feeds  it  for  immortality  by  sacraments  and 
services  that  educate  it  for  eternity  ;  as  the  blade 
is  fed  by  juices  from  below  and  sunshine  from 
above.  Everything  is  silent,  patient,  in  her 
methods,  as  the  corn  and  the  vines  grow  without 
break  or  murmur.  In  spirit  as  well  as  matter 
things  that  grow  slow  grow  sure.  Yet  she  is  no 


After  the  Part//.  165 

more  indifferent  to  man's  spiritual  good,  because 
she  will  not  patronize  so-called  revivals,  than  God 
is  to  the  harvest  because  He  leads  the  grain 
through  six  months  before  it  ripens,  and  will  not 
create  the  corn  in  a  single  hour.  I  do  not  expect," 
he  added,  "  you  gentlemen  to  think  as  I  do  ;  but  to 
admit  that  our  systems  are  clearly  different." 

"  I  certainly  do  not  agree  with  you,"  said  Mr. 
Lefmgwell ;  "but  as  you  were  asked  to  state  your 
position,  it  was  right  for  you  to  do  so." 

"  I  am  very  well  aware,"  replied  the  rector, 
"  that  you  have  your  own  view  and  can  defend  it. 
I  merely  wished  to  answer  your  question." 

"But  how  as  to  dancing?"  interposed  the 
Deacon. 

<;  I  was  about  to  speak  of  that.  The  general 
question  which  lies  behind  yours  is  a  rather  wide 
one,  and  about  it,  I  suppose,  we  disagree.  We  all 
confess  that  every  man's  duty  is  to  live  as  a  Chris- 
tian. But  how  is  that?  Some  thought,  long  ago, 
that  the  model  Christian  was  a  man  who  sat  forty 
years  upon  a  pillar  forty  feet  above  ground,  and 
never  once  pared  his  nails ;  and  a  species  of  that 
sort  of  piety  has  trailed  itself  down  through  the 
ages  of  the  Church.  We  call  it  asceticism  ;  and 
it  undertakes,  by  mortifying  the  flesh,  to  sanctify 
the  spirit  in  us.  Like  every  other  phase  of  re- 
ligion appearing  in  diverse  ages,  it  has  a  measure 
of  truth  in  it,  which  is,  that  our  bodies  are  to  be 


166  After  the  Party. 

brought  in  subjection  to  our  souls,  while  pure  as- 
ceticism would  annihilate  the  body  for  the  sake  of 
the  soul,  which,  as  I  take  it,  is  murdering  one  half 
of  a  man  that  the  other  half  may  live.  The  Church 
says  the  world  is  good,  and  the  soul  purified  by 
grace  is  good,  but  the  one  is  servant  and  the  other 
master,  and  the  soul  is  to  use  the  world  for  its 
own  growth  in  piety.  Some  men  in  a  fever  can 
live  without  food,  as  some  men  in  a  delirium  of  so- 
called  religion  can  live  self-absorbed  and  despising 
to  touch  common  cares  or  pleasures ;  but  fever  is 
never  healthy,  neither  that  religion.  If  God  could 
have  all  men  wholly  live  for  Him,  men  would  not 
be  found  hermits  in  caves,  nor  forever  prone  be- 
fore altars,  but  men  living  in  the  world,  ploughing, 
weeding,  reaping,  trafficking,  feeding  their  children, 
and  keeping  their  households.  The  Kingdom  of 
Grace  makes  no  war  of  extermination  upon  the 
things  of  this  world,  but  only  directs  how  to  use 
and  rule  them.  Our  blessed  Lord  told  the  Roman 
soldier  how  to  behave  in  his  post,  but  he  never 
told  him  to  desert  it,  neither  did  the  Apostles 
keep  back  their  converts  from  any  honest  craft. 
And  as  these  teachers  left  mon  in  the  world,  to 
work  there  for  the  glory  of  God  and  their  own 
spiritual  weal  and  wealth,  so  does  the  Church. 
She  says  to  us,  '  Use  the  world  for  God  and  your 
soul's  health.'  Now  you  ask  me  whether  dancing 
is  evil.  Suppose  you  had  asked  me  if  eating 


After  the  Party.  167 

was  evil.  I  should  answer,  'Under  certain  con- 
ditions, yes;'  as  when  a  convalescent  brings  back 
his  sickness  by  gorging  himself  with  forbidden 
meats  when  the  nurse's  back  is  turned,  or  when  a 
man  destroys  his  health  by  gluttony.  Yet  it  is 
right  to  eat.  Everything  that  God  hath  made  has 
its  place  and  use  —  even  poisons.  The  sin  is  from 
misuse.  I  can  only  tell  you  that  the  Catholic 
Church  has  never  as  yet  anathematized  men  who 
danced,  or  sang,  or  played  upon  the  guitar,  simply 
for  doing  so,  though  all  such  pleasures  seem  re- 
mote from  serving  God,  and  though  she  has  never 
ceased  to  warn  men  against  a  worldly  and  trivial 
life.  You  can  lay  down  no  general  rule,  but  the 
Christian  will  do  nothing  to  hurt  his  soul,  and 
nothing  will  hurt  his  soul  that  does  not  hinder  him 
from  serving  God  and  man.  There  may  be  wor- 
ship in  work,  and  there  may  be  the  devil's  work  in 
what  men  mistake  for  worship,  as  when  the  Phar- 
isee goes  up  to  the  temple  to  be  seen  of  men,  or  a 
man's  litanies  are  at  the  heart  of  them  mere  sound. 
I  may  eat  my  dinner  in  a  spirit  that  worships  God, 
and  I  may  say  a  prayer  so  as  to  insult  Him.  I 
should  say,  then,  that  the  Christian  is  one  who  so 
lives  in  this  world  as  to  honor  God  and  serve  man- 
kind. Protestant  asceticism,  in  my  judgment,  is 
less  logical  than  the  Roman,  and  both  err  against 
human  nature,  and  so  against  God." 

"  But  you  yourself  keep  Lent,"  said  Mr.  Lefing- 
well. 


168  After  the  Party. 

"  Certainly ;  and  because  the  Lenten  abstinence 
may  aid  our  spiritual  growth.  But  not  because 
worldly  things  are  evil,  but  because  the  constant 
use  of  any  good  thing  may  mislead  to  evil  we  break 
in  upon  the  world  with  Lent,  to  give  a  breathing 
place  for  meditation  and  special  devotions.  The 
Church  does  the  same  thing,  indeed,  through 
her  order  of  feasts  and  fasts  of  the  Christian  year. 
The  Church  has  her  Lent,  indeed,  when  she  says  a 
man  should  abstain  from  these  common  things 
according  to  his  ability,  and  give  his  mind  more 
wholly  to  spiritual  things.  That  she  would  regret 
to  see  Lent  a  year  long  is  clear  from  the  fact  that 
she  ends  Lent  at  Easter  with  a  feast.  In  other 
words,  we  hold  that  human  nature  has  its  own 
specific  gravity,  which  we  try  not  to  erase  but 
manage.  Indian  corn,  for  instance,  has  its  own 
normal  height  in  growing,  and  so  has  at  least  the 
average  human  soul.  Men  like  Bernard  or  Am- 
brose no  doubt  reach  a  higher  level,  but  then  we 
call  them  saints.  Men  are  not  angels,  but  remain 
as  Christians  at  the  human  level ;  though  angels, 
even  in  this  world,  might  attain  spiritual  heights 
which  we  never  reach.  The  Church  never  attempts 
the  impossible." 

"  I  have  observed,"  remarked  Deacon  Hobbs, 
rising  from  his  chair  and  drawing  his  august  per- 
son up  to  its  full  height,  "  that  you  speak  of  yours 
as  the  Catholic  Church.  Your  church  is  known 


After  the  Party.  169 

in  civil  law,  if  I  am  not  very  much  mistaken,  as 
the  Protestant  Episcopal  Church." 

"  Very  true  ;  and  if  you  will  be  seated,  I  will 
explain  all  that,  since  it  is  part  of  the  main  ques- 
tion. A  thing  may  be  more  than  its  name,  or  a 
name  more  than  the  thing.  The  former  is  true  of 
our  Church.  Men  might  have  called  it  the  Church 
of  Thirty-nine  Articles,  three  orders,  and  two 
creeds  if  they  had  fancied  so ;  but  the  name 
would  still  have  been  less  than  the  thing.  I  am 
reminded  when  I  hear  our  current  Church  name 
of  a  grotesque  confusion  of  language  in  ex- 
pressing a  curious  fact  of  vegetation,  viz.,  that  a 
blackberry  is  red  when  it  is  green.  We  are  Prot- 
estant ;  we  protested  three  hundred  years  ago,  and 
still  protest,  against  Roman  rule  and  dogma ;  but 
we  are  also  an  existent  Church,  since  we  have  ex- 
isted ever  since  ;  and  we  are  a  Church  of  the  Occi- 
dent, since  we  exist  in  the  west ;  and  so  to  the  end. 
But  this  is  nothing  in  point.  The  heart  of  our 
Church  is  that  she  is  Catholic." 

"  Roman  Catholic,"  suggested  Deacon  Hobbs, 
"  I  can  understand,  but  Catholic  I  can't." 

"  Very  like,  and  perhaps  you  would  understand 
no  better  if  I  took  an  hour  or  so  of  your  time  to 
explain  it,  as  you  would  hardly  wish  to  have  me 
do." 

"  But  you  talk  of  the  ancient  Catholic  Church," 
urged  the  deacon.  "  I  thought  your  Church  be- 


170  After  the  Party. 

gan     with    Henry    VIII.,    three    hundred    years 
ago." 

"  That  is  exactly  what  I  wished  you  to  say ; 
for  in  this  conversation  I  have  meant  that  you 
should  see  one  simple  thing,  and  that  is,  that  the 
whole  drift  and  genius  of  the  Church  differ  from 
yours.  You  say  we  began  with  Henry  VIII.  It 
is  a  question  of  fact  to  be  proved  or  disproved  like 
any  other.  I  say  we  began  with  Jesus  Christ." 

"  Allow  me  to  ask,"  said  Mr.  Lefingwell,  "  what 
Church  existed  in  England  before  the  Refor- 
mation?" 

"  The  Catholic  Church,  under  Roman  rule." 

"  What  after  the  Reformation  ?  " 

"  The  Catholic  Church." 

"  What  is  the  difference  ?  " 

"  Rome. 

"  In  the  mediaeval  ages  they  had  a  habit  of  ban- 
daging new-born  babies  so  that  they  could  move 
neither  hand  nor  foot ;  but  no  matter  how  many 
or  what  wraps  went  on,  it  was  still  the  same  child 
beneath.  And  Rome  in  mediaeval  times  had  ban- 
daged and  swathed  about  the  English  Church  — 
Christ's  child  in  England  —  until  it  seemed  at 
death's  door.  The  Reformers  tore  off  the  bandages, 
and  behold  the  same  child  has  been  growing  ever 
since.  If  I  remove  the  bandage  I  do  not  remove 
the  child,  and  what  I  find  beneath  is  no  change- 
ling." 


After  the  Parti/.  171 

The  Deacon  said  nothing.  He  was  long  since 
thoroughly  disgusted  with  what  he  heard,  most 
of  which  he  did  not  understand.  Mr.  Lefingwell 
said  as  he  rose  to  go,  "  I  most  heartily  disagree 
with  much  that  you  have  said.  Some  things  are 
reasonable.  Every  man  must  take  his  responsi- 
bility, and  I  do  not  wish  to  meddle  with  your 
conscience."  And  the  two  parted  with  courtesy. 
Deacon  Hobbs  forgot  to  make  his  bow.  He  had 
been  looking  round  the  library  to  discover  a 
crucifix. 

"  A  milk  and  water  Roman  Catholic,"  he  mum- 
bled as  he  went  outdoors ;  and  Mr.  Ardenne  re- 
sumed his  studies. 


CHAPTER    XVI. 

FIRST    FLOWERS. 

ONE  man  and  a  Newfoundland  dog  stood  upon 
the  steps  of  the  Seatons'  country  house  on  the  after- 
noon of  the  next  day  after  the  party,  and  the  two, 
when  the  bell  was  answered,  entered  it.  Then 
Edward  Vaughn  and  his  brute  friend  were  ushered 
into  the  parlor,  and  while  the  man  amused  himself 
with  looking  at  some  of  Landseer's  hunting  pieces 
hung  on  the  walls,  the  dog  made  himself  comfort- 
able on  the  rug  before  the  grate.  Mr.  Vaughn 
had  asked  for  Miss  Seaton,  and  in  due  time,  with 
a  rustle  of  silk  on  the  stairs,  that  damsel  appeared. 

"  Welcome  to  Seaton  Hall,"  she  said,  as  she 
gave  him  her  hand. 

"  You  must  know,  Miss  Seaton,.  I  have  made 
this  call  on  foot,  and  I  find  it  a  very  short  road 
from  home.  Now  I  have  found  the  way  and  the 
lady  of  the  castle,  I  trust  to  be  allowed  to  wear 
out  a  whole  kit  of  boots  in  your  service." 

"  You  have  certainly  a  very  singular  way  of  de- 
claring your  gallantry  to  a  lady.  I  trust  the  boots 
you  speak  of  will  not  seriously  damage  your  ex- 
chequer. If  so,  you  can  always  appeal  to  my 
chanty,  you  know.  Please  be  seated." 


First  Flowers.  173 

"  But  first  allow  me  to  introduce  my  friend  to 
you  on  the  rug  yonder.  Are  you  afraid  of  dogs  ?  " 

"  Dogs  ?  I  am  passionately  fond  of  them.  Ah  ! 
yes,  what  a  splendid  creature.  Come  here,  sir." 
The  dog  did  not  move. 

"  You  must  excuse  him,  he  has  been  so  long  out 
of  ladies'  society,  that  like  his  master  he  has  for- 
gotten how  to  behave  himself.  But  he  has  the 
best  intentions.  Thor,  come  here,  and  be  intro- 
duced to  my  friend."  The  dog,  a  huge,  shaggy 
Newfoundland,  rose  slowly  and  came  over  where 
the  two  stood.  "  This  is  Miss  Seaton,  Thor,  a  very 
new  but  a  very  good  friend  of  mine.  Mind  now, 
you  are  to  behave  yourself  as  well  as  you  can." 
The  brute  stood  still  with  his  head  pointing 
straight  before  him.  The  lady  patted  the  great, 
black  head  with  two  round,  white  hands.  "  What 
splendid  eyes  he  has.  Let  us  be  friends,  Sir 
Thor."  The  dog  of  course  said  nothing.  "  But 
what  a  singular  name,  Mr.  Vaughn." 

"  Yes,  very.  We  are  all  a  shade  singular  at  the 
house,  and  we  like  it.  Who  cares  to  be  like  every- 
body else  ?  Thor,  you  must  know,  is  named  after 
a  Scandinavian  divinity,  of  whom  I  have  a  real 
stone  statue  at  my  house,  from  Norway  ;  a  rough- 
bearded,  hairy  demon,  who  made  thunder  and 
lightning  in  his  time,  and  was  a  trifle  too  earthly 
in  his  tastes  to  suit  such  refined  people  as  we  are 
now-a-days.  So  I  have  called  this  dog  after  him, 


174  First  Flowers. 

because  the  brute  has  good  points  in  him,  and  is  a 
hearty  good  fellow,  according  to  his  dog  nature." 

"  You  like  dogs,  then  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  like  all  creatures,  but  horses  and 
dogs  most.  I  like  them  because  I  pity  them 
as  brutes  put  under  such  creatures  as,  I  will  say, 
we  men  ace.  Fate  has  kicked  them  into  life  at  a 
disadvantage.  There  is  not  one  of  them  that 
ever  told  a  lie,  and  not  one  of  them  that  can 
plead  his  own  cause  if  any  human  brute  should 
strike  him  across  the  mouth,  in  joke  or  anger. 
This  dog  is  a  friend  I  am  sure  of.  He  follows  me 
all  day  as  my  shadow,  and  at  night  eats  his  bone 
without  snarling  or  looking  sour.  He  never  tells 
on  me,  nor  laughs  at  me  behind  my  back,  and 
would  jump  at  the  throat  of  any  man  who  should 
make  at  me  with  a  cudgel.  He  keeps  guard  on  the 
rug  at  my  chamber  door  every  night,  and,  in 
short,  does  his  duty  as  a  dog  should,  which  is 
more  than  can  be  said  of  his  master.  He  is  my 
friend,  and  I  can  rely  on  him.  I  therefore  think 
very  much  of  him.  I  am  only  sorry  that  dogs  die 
so  soonj  and  I  wish  they  had  souls.  You  two 
must  be  friends." 

"  If  you  two  are  well  behaved  and  make  your- 
selves agreeable,  that  will  not  be  difficult.  But 
come,  I  must  attend  to  my  guests.  You,  the 
master,  be  seated,  and  you,  the  dog,  be  pleased  to 
make  yourself  comfortable  anywhere  about  the 
house." 


First  Flowers.  175 

So  the  master  and  Miss  Seaton  sat  down  to- 
gether, and  the  dog,  retiring  to  his  rug  again, 
with  his  great  head  on  his  fore  paws,  watched, 
with  two  great,  round,  sleepy  eyes,  the  pair. 

"I  beg  to  inquire  for  Madame  Seaton  and  Miss 
Blanche,  as  I  ought  at  first." 

"  Mother  is  out,  and  Miss  Blanche  has  gone  back 
to  town." 

"  Gone  back  to  town !  I  had  hoped  to  see 
her  again." 

"  Yes,  she  went  at  noon.  Business,  she  said. 
She  was  not  in  a  very  amiable  mood  at  the  break- 
fast table  this  morning.  I  hope  you  made  your- 
self agreeable  to  her  last  night,  for  she  has  had 
a  great  many  admirers  and  yet  has  never  married. 
You  never  met  her  before,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Two  questions  need  two  answers,  my  lady. 
In  the  first  place,  I  have  hard  work  to  be  agree- 
able except  when  the  fit  is  on  me,  and  I  was  not 
at  my  best  last  night,  but  I  did  as  well  as  I  could 
with  your  cousin,  and  I  shall  be  too  vain  to  think 
that  my  society  gave  her  the  blues.  In  the  sec- 
ond place,  I  did  know  your  cousin  once,  slightly, 
but  that  was  long  ago,  and  she  has  very  much 
changed  since." 

"  Yes.  She  is  wonderfully  preserved,  though, 
and  quite  a  terror  to  all  soft  or  sentimental  people. 
Gentlemen  are  usually  afraid  of  her,  young  gen- 
tlemen especially,  and  women  such  as  I  she 


176  First  Flowers. 

doesn't  mind  much.  For  a  woman  who  dresses  so 
well,  she  talks  and  thinks  less  of  dress  than  any 
one  I  ever  saw.  Indeed,  I  don't  know  what  she 
does  think  about.  Certainly  not  about  women's 
matters.  She  treats  me  as  a  child  who  don't 
know  the  world,  and  has  a  very  sarcastic  way  of 
looking  through  one,  and  is  occasionally  very  bitter. 
There,  that  is  a  mean  way  of  talking  about 
another  woman ;  and  if  she  heard  me  she  would 
be  sure  to  pay  me  for  it.  But  Blanche  is  so 
peculiar,  and  I  never  could  make  her  out.  But 
she  is  very  clever." 

"You  put  in  that  last  clause  for  a  caveat 
against  my  opinion,  and  lest  I  should  think  that 
women  never  speak  well  of  women.  But  now 
you  have  told  me  what  Miss  De  Forest  can  do, 
perhaps  you  can  tell  me  what  you  can  do." 

"  Is  it  to-day  that  the  disagreeable  mood  is  on 
you?" 

"  I  humbly  trust  not ;  but  I  am  of  an  inquiring 
mind,  and  I  always  wish  a  lady  to  describe  herself, 
in  order  not  to  put  me  to  the  trouble  to  find  her 
out." 

"  Do  you  believe  her  when  she  gives  you  her 
description  ?  " 

"  Certainly  (with  a  curious  drawing  down  of 
the  mouth) ;  I  believe  a  lady  always.  She  is  quite 
my  gospel.  Now  then,  what  can  you  do,  Miss 
Seaton?" 


First  Flowers.  177 

"  I  can  keep  my  secret." 

"  What  else  ?  " 

"  I  can  eat  my  dinner,  when  it  is  well  cooked." 

"  What  else  ?  " 

"  Question  for  question.  What  earthly,  im- 
aginable good  will  it  do  you  to  know  what  I  can 
do  ?  Suppose  I  can  build  a  house, —  have  you  any 
houses  to  build?  " 

"  I  might  order  a  dozen." 

"You  may  be  sure  then  I  should  look  to  the 
pay  before  I  began,  and  gentlemen  are  not  always 
good  paymasters." 

"  I  am,  as  you  may  know,  a  student,  going 
about  studying  human  nature.  As  I  told  you  just 
now,  I  prefer  that  a  lady  should  describe  herself. 
Please,  then,  tell  me  what  you  can  do." 

"  Well,  then,  to  please  myself  and  to  displease 
you,  for  I  see  there  is  nothing  that  suits  you 
better  than  to  confuse  one,  and,  that  this  may  end, 
I  can  do  several  things, —  sew,  sing,  dance  a  little, 
paint  autumn  leaves  in  water  colors." 

"  Can  you  make  bread  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not.     Why  should  I  ?  " 

"  Because  no  woman  who  cannot  make  bread  is 
fit  to  be  married  ?  " 

"  And  you,  like  every  other  man,  think  that  the 
chief  end  of  woman  is  to  be  married  ?  " 

"  Certainly." 

"  The  conceit  of  men  is  monstrous.     The  chief 


178  First  Flotvers. 

end  of  woman  is  to  amuse  herself,  to  dress,  to 
dance,  to  walk,  to  ride  a  little,  to  be  waited  on, 
and,  above  all,  not  to  be  teased." 

"  So  you  cannot  make  bread,  then,"  said  Edward 
Vaughn,  with  a  meditative  air  and  in  a  provok- 
ingly  serious  voice. 

"I  tell  you  what,  I  can  eat  it.  and  the  cooks 
can  do  the  rest.  As  long  as  I  get  my  bread,  I 
have  not  and  shall  never  have  the  slightest  wish  to 
know  anything  about  the  making  of  it." 

"  Clearly  not  made  for  a  wife." 

"  Thank  you.  Come  here,  Thor,"  calling  to  the 
dog  upon  the  rug ;  "  come  here  a  moment,  good 
fellow."  The  dog  slowly  rose  and  came  this  time 
and  laid  his  great  head  down  in  Isabel  Seaton's 
lap.  She  bent  down  a  vexed  face  over  the  brute, 
and  caressed  the  head.  "Come,  good  fellow,  be 
my  friend.  Your  master  yonder  is  not  a  good 
man ;  he  is  vexing  me.  He  is  laughing  at  me 
ever  since  he  came.  Bark  at  him,  bite  him  a 
little,  anything  to  make  him  stop.  Be  my  knight, 
good  dog,  and  take  my  part."  The  dog's  head 
laid  quite  still  under  two  very  white,  round  hands. 

"  Gallant  dog,"  said  the  master,  "  take  the 
lady's  part.  Your  master  is  a  great  sinner,  but 
he  means  well.  But  he  is  awkward.  He  pays  a 
visit  to  a  lady  that  he  wishes  to  make  his  friend, 
and  before  he  knows  it  provokes  her  almost  to 
tears.  He  must  be  either  a  great  villain  or  a 


First  Flower?.  179 

great  unfortunate.  Good  clog,  ask  your  mistress  to 
have  pity.  We  are  only  clogs;  women  are  angels, 
and  angels  pity.  Promise  her  we  will  behave  in 
future,  as  we  learn  how,  and  beg  her  to  teach  us 
better  manners.  Beg  her  to  shake  hands  and  be 
friends  "  —  and  he  held  out  his  hand  towards  the 
dog's  head.  "Come  now,"  he  said,  "Miss  Seaton, 
forgive  me  and  shake  hands.  I  was  rude."  Very 
slowly  a  soft  hand  was  laid  in  his. 

"  We  are  friends  now  ?  with  these  two  hands 
on  Thor's  head." 

"  If  you  wish  it  I  will  be." 

The  hand  was  removed  as  slowly  as  it  was 
given,  and  the  great  brute,  looking  first  from  one 
to  the  other,  with  a  dog's  gravity  went  finally  back 
to  the  rug. 

The  half  hour  that  followed  such  a  reconciliation 
passed  very  pleasantly.  Edward  Vaughn  could 
be  an  elegant  gentle  man;  and  when,  in  a  low, 
musical  voice,  he  chatted  with  her  of  Europe 
and  the  fashions  of  different  people  he  had 
lived  amongst,  Isabel  Seaton  wondered  how  the 
man  talking  beside  her  could  ever  be  absurd.  Over 
an  Italian  song  which  they  sang  together  they 
seemed  to  become  still  better  friends,  and  when  he 
rose  to  go  Edward  Vaughn  wondered  that  he  had 
stayed  so  long.  She  went  with  him  to  the  open 
door.  The  sun  was  low  in  the  west,  and  its  rays 
were  falling  on  the  fresh  spring  leaves,  wet  with  a 


180  First  Flowers. 

recent  shower.  There  was  that  peculiar  earthy 
smell  in  the  air,  which  is,  as  it  were,  the  scent  of 
that  life  which  garlands  the  breasts  of  Mother 
Earth  with  spring  flowers  and  grasses. 

"  Come  now,  Miss  Seaton,"  Edward  Vaughn 
said,  "  if  you  have  quite  forgiven  me,  just  take 
the  short  walk  with  me  to  the  gate.  You  will 
need  a  shawl,  I  think,  as  it  is  a  little  chill.  Allow 
me  to  assist  your  toilette,"  and  he  helped  to  put  a 
stout,  gray  shawl  round  the  shoulders  in  a  very 
gentle  fashion.  "  There  now,  you  are  quite  water- 
proof." By  the  gate  where  they  stopped  there  was 
an  apple  tree  in  full  bloom.  He  reached  up  his 
hand  and  shook  down  the  rain  from  the  nearest 
branches.  "  Look  at  this  apple  tree,"  he  said,  "  with 
its  white  blossoms  flecked  with  crimson.  It  is  the 
Madonna's  tree.  Oblige  me  by  just  standing 
under  here  a  moment.  Do  not  be  afraid." 

"  I  am  not  afraid,"  she  said.  She  stood  quite  still, 
while  the  man  beside  her,  reaching  up  a  strong  arm, 
shook  down  the  blossom  leaves  upon  the  blonde 
hair. 

"There  now,  mon  ami;  you  see  I  crown  you 
with  flowers  for  a  benediction.  They  are  the  best 
I  have,  though  they  are  withered.  Good  bye." 
And  Isabel  Seaton  walked  slowly  back  to  the 
house. 

She  was  half  convinced  she  hated  him.  What 
did  that  matter?  With  women  love  and  hate  are 


First  Flowers.  181 

two  doors  on  one  front,  that  may  open  into  the  same 
hall.  Hate  is  the  door  on  the  left  hand.  Yet  she 
said  to  herself,  as  she  sat  down  at  the  piano  where 
they  two  had  been,  "They  say  he  is  very  rich." 

And  Edward  Vaughn  ?  — 

He  will  try  to  take  care  of  himself. 


CHAPTER    XVII. 

THE   SHADOW    OF   NEMESIS. 

"MR.  VAUGHN'S  compliments  to  Miss  Seaton 
and  will  call  for  her  at  three,"  said  a  servant,  as  he 
handed  in  at  the  door  a  note  for  the  aforesaid  lady 
from  his  master.  Miss  Isabel  read  the  note  care- 
fully in  her  mother's  dressing-room,  and  then  merely 
said,  "Ma,  I  am  going  to  ride  with  Mr.  Vaughn 
up  the  river  road  this  afternoon,  and  shall  prob- 
ably be  home  late  to  tea." 

"See  that  you  are  warmly  dressed,  my  child, 
and  ask  Mr.  Vaughn  from  me  to  take  his  tea  with 
us." 

"  Yes,  Ma ;  "  and  the  daughter  went  down  stairs 
to  order  her  horse ;  and  made  ready. 

Sharp  three,  Edward  Vaughn  rode  up  with  his 
inevitable  comrade  Thor  at  his  horse's  heels.  He 
came  in  with  his  gray  riding-suit,  spurred  and 
booted,  and  Miss  Isabel  met  him  in  the  hall. 
"So  you  are  ready,  are  you?"  he  said,  eyeing 
with  evident  satisfaction  the  lady  who,  whip  in 
hand,  and  holding  the  trail  of  her  riding  habit, 
stood  to  receive  him. 

"  Yes.  I  knew  you  would  dislike  to  wait,  and 
so  I  ordered  my  horse  ready  an  hour  ago." 


The  Shadow  of  Nemesis.  183 

"Thank  you." 

"  Ma  says  you  are  to  take  your  tea  with  us." 

"  Very  good  ;  now  for  the  horse." 

The  horses  were  brought  round,  and  the  two  rode 
away. 

If  ever  Isabel  Seaton  looked  well,  it  was  on 
horseback  and  at  a  gallop.  A  perfect  form  ripened 
into  young  womanhood,  and  the  glow  of  health 
upon  her  face,  under  the  little,  plumed  hat  that 
made  no  attempt  to  conceal  the  blonde  hair 
beneath,  and  a  certain  courage  in  her  horseman- 
ship, were  enough  to  warrant  the  look  of  admira- 
tion which  her  companion  gave  her  as  they  passed 
through  the  gate  into  the  road. 

"Are  you  afraid  to  ride  fast,  mon  ami?" 

"  Try  me." 

"  Well,  then,  for  a  dash  ;  "  and  the  horses  broke 
into  a  full  gallop.  There  was  a  mile  of  it,  and 
nothing  said. 

"  We  will  not  drive  straight  up  this  long  hill,  at 
any  rate,"  Edward  Vaughn  said,  as  they  came  to 
the  first  hill  that  overlooked  the  river.  "I  am  not 
sure,  Miss  Seaton,  but  your  horse  is  the  faster,  and 
I  must  say  you  ride  gallantly.  Now,  that  is  a  com- 
pliment you  have  forced  from  me.  I  mean  it." 

"Do  you  not  mean  all  compliments?" 

"No;  why  should  I?" 

"  Why  shouldn't  you  ?  " 

"  Because  compliments,  as  the  world  goes,  mean 


184  The  Shadow  of  Nemesis. 

nothing.  None  know  that  better  than  women. 
They  are  a  sort  of  sixpences  and  pennies  with 
which  one  pays  his  way  in  society,  and  it  makes 
nobody  poorer  giving  them." 

"  But  with  your  view  of  them  they  make  no- 
body rich  who  gets  them." 

"It  might  depend  on  who  gave  it;  but  a  six- 
pence might  make  one  feel  rich  sometimes." 

"  I  don't  think  I  have  found  you  very  much  of  a 

prodigal  with  this  sort  of  silver.     At  any  rate,  you 

wouldn't  give   a   lady  what  was  worth  nothing, 

—  mere  leaves,  or  dry  sticks  from   the  roadside, 

would  you  ?  " 

"  Certainly  I  would,  if  it  pleased  her.  Compli- 
ments are  painted  sticks  with  which  clever  people 
play  at  jackstraws,  and  whoever  gets  most  gets 
not  much.  But  come  now,  you  should  not  always 
contradict  me  ;  should  you,  Miss  Belle?" 

"  To  use  your  word,  '  certainly, '  if  I  wish  it.  I 
like  to  contradict  you  men,  —  lords  of  creation,  as 
you  think  yourselves.  If  you  were  let  go  on 
without  reining  you  up  sharp,  you  would  be  like 
runaway  horses,  forever  getting  into  mischief." 

"  Well  said,  Miss  Belle.  And  now,  if  you  please, 
turn  your  horse's  head,  and  let  us  take  a  look  down 
the  river." 

It  was  a  June  day,  when  the  woods  upon  the 
low,  ragged  hills  which  hemmed  in  the  river  had 
that  fresh,  living  look  which  they  never  show  so 


The  Shadow  of  Nemesis.  185 

well  at  any  other  season  ;  the  light  tasselled  birches 
against  the  darker  oaks,  and  the  white  flowers  of 
the  dogwood  scattered  along  the  hillsides;  while 
the  clouds,  mellow,  gray,  and  rifted,  had  an  abun- 
dant watery  look  as  if  about  to  give  their  fulness 
to  the  lips  of  the  green  woods  to  drink  deeper 
verdure. 

"  There,"  he  said,  "  see  the  blue  mist  among  the 
further  hills,  and  the  gray,  restless  river,  whirling 
and  eddying  and  eating  into  the  sandbanks  below 
us  at  the  bends,  and  building  sand-bars  against 
those  islands  yonder  —  it  seems  never  better  satis- 
fied than  we  mortals  are.  I  am  told  that  this 
river,  since  the  white  man  came,  has  changed  its 
bed  at  least  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away." 

"  How  charming  it  is,  and  everything  so  fresh 
and  sweet-scented,"  the  lady  said  ;  "  the  earth  to- 
day looks  quite  like  a  bride.  I  hope  it  is  a  happy 
bride." 

"  A  true  bride  anyhow,  Miss  Belle.  There  is 
not  a  leaf  or  a  flower  that  ever  lies.  Human 
mouths  only  frame  themselves  to  falsehood.  Na- 
ture never  grumbles,  never  backbites,  but  has  a 
sweet,  endless  charity  for  all.  I  feel  better  in  the 
spring  fields  than  anywhere  else ;  because  I  know 
that  they  will  say  nothing  disagreeable  or  accuse 
me  of  my  faults." 

"  The  spring  affects  even  a  strong  man  like  you, 
then  ?  " 


186  The  Shadow  of  Nemesis. 

"  Yes ;  at  least  it  did  when  I  was  younger. 
Then,  somehow,  when  the  buds  were  breaking  into 
blossom,  it  used  to  seem  to  me  as  if  I,  unless  I 
wished  to  be  mocked  by  all  the  beauty  around 
me,  ought  to  rise  up  to  the  level  of  a  great  action 
and  do  something  heroic  and  like  a  man.  But 
since  I  have  been  older  I  have  lost  that  sense  in 
measure." 

"Are  you  very,  very  old,  sir?" 

"  If  my  years  are  to  be  counted  by  my  sins,  I 
am  several  centuries." 

"  What  a  patriarch  !  Are  you  a  great  sinner, 
too?" 

"Yes,  a  vast  sinner." 

"Perhaps  I  might  manage  to  get  you  absolu- 
tion, if  you  paid  well,"  she  answered,  patting  quite 
mechanically  her  horse's  neck. 

"  No  priest  can  absolve  me,"  he  said ;  "  I  am 
past  that.  Besides,  to  confess  to  a  man  would  be 
like  eating  wormwood  ;  I  should  make  wry  faces 
at  it." 

"  Suppose  you  elect  me  your  father  confessor," 
she  said  archly,  glancing  up  into  the  face  of  the 
man  beside  her,  with  the  blue  eyes  under  the  long 
eyelashes.  "  If  you  were  humble  enough,  I  might 
give  you  an  easy  penance." 

"You!  You  are  too  young  —  allow  me,  too 
pretty  —  to  confess  to.  The  woman  I  confess  to 
must  be  a  hag,  old,  wrinkled,  sere,  toothless,  and 


The  Shadow  of  Nemesis.  187 

wear  a  wig ;  quite  a  wreck,  you  see  ;  a  woman  with 
a  heart  as  tough  as  shoe  leather  and  as  dry  too, 
no  juices  in  her.  Then  if  I  brought  my  wares  to 
her,  she  couldn't  blush,  and  she  wouldn't  pity." 

"Don't  you  like  pity?" 

"  No,  what  man  ever  did  ?  I  had  rather  be 
struck  in  the  face  than  pitied  any  time.  To  pity 
a  man  is  to  patronize  him,  and  men  like  me  are 
patronized  —  well,  say  by  Beelzebub.  At  least  we 
deserve  it  of  our  master." 

"I  shall  begin  to  look  for  the  horns  and  the 
hoofs  pretty  soon,  if  you  insist  on  talking  that 
way.  You  certainly  look  human,  and  have  acted 
a  little  so  since  I  have  met  you.  You  are  cross 
and  tease  folks  sometimes.  But  really,  are  you 
such  a  terrible  individual  as  you  would  have  me 
believe  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Miss  Belle,  I  am  everything  —  nothing ;  an 
animal  that  eats  his  dinner  but  never  earns  it.  I 
have  a  room  under  lock  and  key  where  I  should 
be  very  sorry  to  have  you  go." 

"Ah!" 

"  Not  a  very  large  chamber,  with  red  hangings 
to  it  and  some  very  curious  machinery  that  will 
stop  one  day,  and  in  it  skeletons  —  neither  clean 
nor  handsome.  You  should  never  go  in  there  for 
health  or  wealth." 

"I  have  the  curiosity  of  Blue  Beard's  wife. 
Pray,  where  is  this  chamber  ?  " 


188  The  Shadow  of  Nemesis. 

"Here,"  he  said,  with  a  very  grim  smile,  bring- 
ing down  a  great  hand  heavily  on  the  gray  coat, 
under  which  his  heart  was  supposed  to  be. 

"  Ah,  yes,  I  understand ;  you  mean  your  heart. 
I  have  always  been  crazy  to  see  one.  What  does 
it  look  like,  I  mean  yours,  Sir  Blue  Beard  ?  " 

"  Well,  never  mind  what  it  looks  like.  Now  I 
have  told  you,  take  care.  In  Blue  Beard's  cham- 
ber there  were  some  things  that  women  didn't 
like  to  see.  Remember,  I  gave  you  warning. 
Never  ask  for  the  key." 

"  I  shall  take  care.  You  are  no  doubt  a  magni- 
ficent monster,  and  therefore  will  spare  poor  me 
for  to-day.  I  came  out  for  a  gallop,  and  that,  Sir 
Monster,  I  shall  trust  you  will  aid  rne  to.  You 
said  we  were  to  ride  to  the  Bridge  ;  we  have  four 
miles  yet." 

"  Right ;  and  away.  You  are  a  brave  girl  and 
your  society  goes  hard  upon  making  me  like  other 
masculine  mortals  —  a  trifle  soft  and  blarneysome. 
Come." 

And  the  two  wheeled  their  horses  into  the  road 
for  a  gallop.  It  was  a  swift  ride  to  the  Bridge,  and 
as  they  reined  up  their  horses  under  the  gray 
granite  cliffs,  tufted  with  pines  and  cedars,  to 
watch  the  passionate  river  that  here  dashed  itself 
in  foam  against  the  seamed,  weather-stained  rocks 
which  hemmed  it  in,  Edward  Vaughn  cried 
"  Bravo !  That  was  well  done  for  a  woman.  I 


The  Shadow  of  Nemesis.  189 

should  like  to  ride  with  you  at  a  fox  hunt,  Miss 
Belle.  You  were  made  to  take  a  fence  or  a  ditch 
without  flinching.  You  have  courage.  I  wish 
you  were  my  sister." 

"  Then  would  you  be  more  agreeable  ?  " 

"  Possibly.  Occasionally.  I  don't  know.  I 
don't  know  anything  sure." 

"  That  is  a  sad  state  of  mind  for  a  gentleman,  I 
am  sure.  I  thought  they  knew  everything." 

"Did  you?  Well,  then,  I  don't  know,  but  I 
think  it  is  going  to  rain.  The  clouds  are  growing 
black  in  the  north  and  rising ;  and  the  white  crests 
on  them  look  like  a  thunderstorm.  I  should  re- 
gret exceedingly  to  have  you  spoil  your  hat." 

"  I  am  quite  in  your  protection.  Do  you  say 
'home'?" 

"  Yes,  home,  I  think.  There,  I  hear  the  first 
rumble  of  the  thunder." 

It  was  time  to  be  going.  The  cloud  was  rising, 
and  the  wind  came  in  gusts,  also  a  few  drops  of 
rain. 

It  was  a  fine  dash  they  made,  among  the  green 
woods,  with  the  black  cloud  rising  overhead 
until  the  face  of  the  river  that  flowed  beside  them 
was  also  very  black.  It  was  at  full  speed  that 
they  rode  under  a  clump  of  elms  and  maples,  just 
where  the  hills  had  pushed  themselves  down  on 
the  left  close  to  the  river,  and  the  road  lay  be- 
tween. It  was  almost  dark  there. 


190  The  Shadow  of  Nemesis. 

"  Give  your  horse  the  rein.  He  will  keep  the 
road,  Miss  Belle." 

"  I  am  doing  so." 

The  words  were  scarcely  spoken  when  her 
horse,  first  violently  shying  against  his  neighbor, 
reared  almost  upright.  It  was  a  moment's  work 
in  the  dark  under  the  trees.  The  horse,  in  a  panic, 
and  evidently  bent  on  throwing  his  rider,  plunged 
viciously.  He  had  ahead}'  sidled  away  towards  the 
river.  Edward  Vaughn  drove  his  spur  deep  into 
his  horse's  right  flank,  and  with  his  right  hand 
wheeled  him  with  a  lunge  almost  against  the  other, 
who  was  just  rearing  again.  The  woman  had 
spoken  no  word,  but  was  fighting  for  her  life.  He 
caught  her  horse,  left  handed,  by  the  bridle,  swing- 
ing himself  clear  off  his  own.  The  horse's  head 
swung  down  a  moment  with  the  weight,  and  his 
right  hand  reached  her  in  the  saddle. 

"  Foot  out  of  stirrup,  jump ; "  and  the  silent 
woman,  steadied  by  a  strong  arm,  swung  herself  to 
the  ground. 

Edward  Vaughn  held  to  the  horse.  It  was  a 
powerful  creature,  thin  flanked,  heavy  chested,  and 
quite  wild ;  and  as  the  man  clung  to  him  the  two 
struggled  together  to  the  road  side  and  Vaughn 
was  swung  violently  against  a  tree.  He  heard 
the  bone  crack.  He  had  one  arm  left.  With  an 
oath  hissing  between  his  teeth,  he  aimed  a  fright- 
fully crushing  blow  with  the  right  at  the  horse, 


The  Shadow  of  Nemesis.  191 

behind  the  ear,  and  the  brute  fell  quivering  and 
stunned  on  the  ground. 

The  woman  came  up  to  him.  "Are  you  much 
hurt?"  she  said.  She  had  not  spoken  before. 

"  No ;  stand  away ;  your  horse  may  make  a 
lunge  when  he  gets  over  the  blow  I  hit  him.  Go 
back  in  the  road." 

Edward  Vaughn  held  firmly  the  bridle  of  the 
prostrate  horse.  "  Now,  my  good  fellow,"  he  said, 
when  the  creature  finally  rose  to  his  haunches, 
"  easy,  I  am  here.  Be  quiet,"  and  the  horse  came 
to  his  feet  trembling  from  head  to  foot.  The  man 
had  conquered. 

"  Come  now  to  your  mistress."  As  the  man  led 
the  horse  back  into  the  road,  he  stumbled  against 
something  that  felt  like  a  pack  of  wool,  and  the 
horse,  bending  his  nose  to  the  ground,  trembled  and 
attempted  a  faint  shy  again.  Edward  Vaughn 
kicked  the  thing  with  his  foot.  "What's  that?" 

"  Me,"  said  a  thin,  squeaking  voice.     "  Me." 

"  Me  !    Who  the  devil  are-you  ?  " 

"  Me  —  Gum  Arabic ;  the  man  what  does  chores 
at  Widow  Smith's.  I  am  overtook  with  the  cramp 
in  my  stomach." 

"  Drunk  as  a  beast.  You  nearly  broke  my  neck 
over  your  carcass.  Get  up," — and  he  gave  him  a 
kick  with  his  boot. 

"  Help  a  feller  up." 


192  The  Shadow  of  Nemesis. 

"  Get  up  yourself  or  I'll  throw  you  into  the 
river." 

The  man,  under  the  inspiration  of  the  boot,  man- 
aged to  get  up. 

"  Now  stand  here,  until  I  get  ready  to  have  you 
go,  or  I'll  cut  your  throat  or  do  something  worse." 

He  led  the  horse  up  to  Miss  Seaton.  "  He  is  as 
gentle  as  a  lamb  now.  Will  you  dare  to  ride  him 
home  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  but  where  is  your  horse  ?  " 

"  Gone  down  the  road,  nobody  knows  where, 
and  I  must  foot  it  home.  But  come,  the  rain  is 
almost  here,  and  you  must  go.  Here,  let  me  help 
you.  Have  you  got  the  reins  in  the  dark,  left 
hand,  mind  ?  " 

"  Now  then,"  and  with  a  strong  arm  around  her 
waist  she  was  swung  to  the  saddle  again. 

"  But  what  is  to  become  of  you  ?  "  she  said. 

"Oh,  never  mind  me.  I  shall  walk.  Don't 
alarm  the  house,  nor  send  anybody  back  for  me. 
I  shall  be  with  you  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour  or  so. 
Ride  on  ;  it  is  raining  now." 

"  If  you  will  it,  I  will  leave  you." 

"  Ride  hard,  and  don't  stop  to  talk  with  me.  It 
is  going  to  be  a  very  ugly  night."  And  Isabel 
Seaton  rode  bravely  away  into  the  dark. 

"  Now  then,"  he  said,  turning  to  the  man  with 
the  pack,  "  what  are  you  doing  here  ?  " 

"  I'm   an  unfortunate    individual.     My   mother 


The  Shadoiv  of  Nemesis.  193 

was  burnt  to  death  and  my  sister  died  with  the 
measles,  and  I've  never  been  well  since  I  had  the 
influenza  that's  hurt  all  my  bones." 

"Yes,  drunk  and  lay  down  in  the  road  to  sleep, 
for  people  to  break  their  necks  over  ;  that's  the 
story.  Such  fellows  as  you  ought  to  be  hung." 

The  man  was  slowly  coming  to  his  senses.  He 
attempted  to  touch  his  bit  of  a  slouched  felt  hat  to 
Mr.  Vaughn. 

"  Yes ;  I  am  an  unfortunate,  Mr.  Vaughn," 
beginning  a  maudlin,  half-drunken  cry,  "  and  you 
gin  me  three  shillin'  last  week  to  help  a  feller.  I 
didn't  mean  it;  no,  sure." 

"  Well,  but  I  can't  stop  to  bother  with  you. 
You'll  die  here  in  the  rain  before  morning.  Where 
are  you  going  ? " 

"  Nowhere." 

"Go  home." 

"I  hain't  got  none,  nor  no  money  nuther. 

"  Money  !  what  a  poor  devil  you  are.  You're 
always  drunk  when  you  have  a  sixpence.  There, 
take  that,"  giving  him  a  couple  of  shillings,  "  and 
move  on.  Somebody  will  take  you  in,  or  you  can 
get  into  a  barn.  But  if  you  lie  down  in  the  road 
again  to-night,  I'll  have  you  hung  and  cut  up  into 
quarters.  Mind  that." 

"  Yis,  your  honor  ;  "  and  the  man,  lifting  unstead- 
ily his  pack  upon  his  stick  over  his  shoulder,  moved 
on.  Edward  Vaughn  went  down  the  road  in  a 


194  The  Shadoiv  of  Nemesis. 

fierce,  steady  tramp  till  he  came  to  the  Seatons' 
house.  The  rain  was  by  this  time  falling  heavily. 
Miss  Seaton  was  waiting  for  him  upon  the  piazza. 
"  We  have  been  so  anxious,"  she  said. 

"  I  had  better  go  to  the  kitchen,"  he  said  ;  "  I 
am  wet  and  muddy." 

"  No  ;  into  the  dining-room  by  the  fire." 

"  But  what  is  the  matter  ?  "  she  said,  as  he  came 
to  the  light.  "  You  are  so  pale."  He  was  indeed 
white. 

"Nothing  of  consequence.  I  wish  somebody 
to  go  for  the  doctor.  I  have  got  a  job  for  him," 
and  a  grim  smile  crossed  his  features  again. 

"  Do  not  alarm  yourself,  madam,"  he  said  to 
Mrs.  Seaton,  as  that  lady  with  a  very  bustling  air 
was  proposing  a  remedy  for  at  least  a  score  of 
maladies.  "  It -is  a  trifle.  I  am  a  little  faint,  and 
I  want  a  glass  of  brandy,  if  you  have  it."  The 
doctor  came  in  with  an  inquiring  professional  look. 
"  I  have  broken  my  left  arm,  Doctor,  and  want  it 
set.  No  ;  don't  move  it.  I  heard  the  bone  break. 
Cut  off  the  coat  and  get  at  it  somehow."  They 
cut  the  coat  off,  and  set  the  bone  of  a  great,  brawny 
arm.  "  There  now  "  he  said,  when  it  was  finished, 
"  I  have  been  over  the  world,  and  never  did  this 
thing  before ;  and  now  for  a  horse  to  break  my  arm 
in  a  cowpath  !  Bah  !  Miss  Seaton,  this  will  never 
do.  It  is  not  romantic." 

Then  he  rose  up.     "  I  regret  to  say,  ladies,"  with 


The  Shadow  of  Nemesis.  195 

a  very  formal  bow  to  Madame,  "  that  I  cannot  take 
my  tea  with  you  this  evening.  I  must  go  home." 

"  Home  !     Impossible.     It  is  a  hard  rain-storm." 

"Your  pardon,  I  must  go  home." 

"  At  least  we  will  send  you  home." 

"  No,  I  shall  walk." 

The  company  looked  at  one  another,  as  though 
the  man  before  them  was  a  little  daft. 

"  Adieu,  ladies,"  he  said,  and  went  tramping  out 
into  the  storm.  Edward  Vaughn  should  have  been 
a  great  and  good  man,  and  he  knew  himself  to  be 
neither.  To  be  wet  with  rain,  to  be  beat  with 
storm,  to  fight  his  way  through  obstacles  to  his 
point,  to  be  forever  satisfying  his  fierce,  lawless 
moods,  in  a  fierce  battle  somewhere,  to  absorb 
himself  in  a  struggle  for  mastery  over  something, 
and  then  to  throw  away  his  prizes  as  though  they 
were  dead  leaves,  this  was  the  secret  of  his  life. 

Therefore  with  a  broken  arm  he  chose  to  tramp 
home  in  the  rain. 


CHAPTER     XVIII. 

A    MAIDEN. 

EDWARD  VAUGHN  seemed  to  have  entered  the 
world  again  at  his  party.  By  that  fete  he  had 
become  at  once  acquainted  with  Aubrey  folk 
and  a  visitor  at  several  houses.  The  town  peo- 
ple, now  that  the  ice  was  broken,  found  him  an 
agreeable  person,  and  if  his  faults  had  been  as 
mountains,  there  are  some  in  every  community  to 
whom  they  would  have  been  quite  hid  behind  his 
bank-book.  Truth  to  say,  he  was  a  pleasant  per- 
son when  the  fit  was  on  him,  and  he  never  did 
things  by  halves.  He  evidently  intended  to  make 
himself  agreeable,  and  agreeable  he  was.  But 
while  he  cultivated  Aubrey  society,  he  also  betook 
himself  with  new  zeal  to  field  sports ;  and  although 
his  broken  arm  hindered  him  for  some  time  from 
horseback,  he  went,  to  say  truth,  trout  fishing 
every  other  day.  With  nothing  to  do  he  was  the 
busiest  of  men,  and  with  a  certain  restless  activity 
he  was  always  walking,  climbing,  or  exploring 
through  almost  every  field  and  glen  in  the 
neighborhood. 

He  was  trout  fishing  one  Saturday  morning  in 


A  Maiden.  197 

Curtis'  brook,  with  his  invariable  companion,  Thor, 
who  had  learnt  the  mysteries  of  the  craft,  well  in  his 
rear  to  avoid  scaring  the  fish,  and  hunting  frogs  at 
his  own  venture  in  the  pools  that  had  been  left  in  the 
hollows  under  the  tree  roots  which  exposed  them- 
selves at  the  bank  edges.  It  was  a  wild  place, 
where  the  stream  in  spring  freshets  swept  on  full 
between  the  high  rocky  banks  thick  with  pines 
and  hemlocks;  but  at  this  season  the  water  had 
shrunk  away  to  a  shallow  stream  tumbling  noisily 
over  the  rocks  midway  between  the  banks,  and  its" 
bed  was  for  the  most  time  bare.  Mr.  Vaughn  was 
fishing  up  stream  among  the  rocks  and  in  the  pools 
that  lay  at  their  base,  absorbed  in  his  sport,  until 
he  had  come  to  where  the  high  banks  afore  named 
close  together  and  overhang  the  water  with  the 
deep  shadows  of  their  evergreens.  It  was  the 
place  where  the  largest  trout  lie  hid.  All  at  once 
he  had  a  sense  that  some  one  was  near  him, 
though  he  had  not  looked  up,  and  the  stream  was 
so  noisy  that  he  heard  nothing  else.  Yet  lie  felt  a 
presence,  and  knew  that  when  he  chose  to  look 
he  should  find  a  human  creature  near  him.  So  he 
looked  up,  of  course.  Ten  feet  before  him,  under 
the  hemlocks,  was  a  woman.  He  took  a  good  view 
of  her.  It  was  a  girl  of  twenty,  maybe,  who  wore 
a  chip  hat  trimmed  black  and  a  gray  dress  with  a 
brown  cloth  sack  over  it.  She  was  of  medium 
height,  petite,  brown  haired,  with  a  pale  face  and 


198  A  Maiden. 

two  very  round  black  eyes,  soft  liquid  Oriental 
eyes,  such  as  Peris  have,  they  say,  who  salute  those 
good  Mahomedans  that  are  so  fortunate  as  to 
enter  Paradise.  Besides  the  eyes,  and  that  hers 
was  a  pure,  open,  childlike  face,  there  was  nothing 
to  be  especially  remarked  about  her.  She  had  a 
collection  of  ferns  and  brakes  in  her  hand,  and  on 
her  left  arm  a  wicker  basket  with  a  lid  to  it. 

First  Edward  Vaughn  made  her  as  polite  a  bow 
as  he  well  could  standing  upon  two  very  slippery 
stones.  Then  he  said,  with  a  smile,  "  I  very 
seldom  have  a  lady's  company  trout  fishing,  and  I 
didn't  think  there  was  one  of  your  race  within  a 
thousand  miles  of  me ;  for  it  seems  a  thousand 
miles  away  from  everybody  when  I  get  in  under 
these  hills." 

"  I  am  quite  as  much  surprised  as  you  can  be  at 
this  meeting,  I  assure  you,  sir.  I  seldom  meet  any 
one  here  but  the  birds  and  squirrels,  and  I  come 
here  very  often." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  then,  for  intruding  on  your 
solitude.  As  you  seem  to  be  the  Lady  of  the 
Woods,  I  beg  you  to  allow  me  to  catch  a  few 
more  trout  before  I  go  home  to  dinner." 

"  These  are  not  my  woods,"  she  answered,  "  but 
God's,  and  they  belong  to  everybody.  I  can  give 
you  no  permission  here.  Aubrey  people  own  the 
town,  but  the  woods  and  the  waters  belong  to  Him, 
and  therefore  are  free  to  every  one." 


A  Maiden.  199 

"  May  I  make  bold  to  ask  the  name  of  the  lady 
I  see  before  me  with  a  handful  of  ferns." 

"  I  am  Lucy  Farewell,  the  teacher  of  St.  Clem- 
ent's parish  school." 

"  Ah,  yes,  you  belong  to  the  Stone  Church.  I  am 
Edward  Vaughn  —  without  occupation,  less  than 
sixty,  a  vagabond  trout  fisher,  horse  rider,  dinner 
eater,  Epicurean,  Stoic,  something,  nothing,  —  at 
your  service." 

The  lady  looked  surprise  out  of  the  black  eyes, 
but,  saying  nothing,  was  picking  up  her  basket, 
which  she  had  laid  off  her  arm,  as  if  to  go. 

"Pardon  me,  Miss  Farewell,  a  question.  lama 
little  curious  to  know  why  you  go  clambering  round 
among  these  hills.  It's  not  the  way  of  young  ladies 
generally  to  do  anything  else  but  dress  and  eat  their 
dinners ;  besides,  the  sun  is  very  like  to  spoil  your 
complexion." 

"  Do  you  really  wish  to  know,  sir  ?  " 

"I  do." 

"  Then  I  am  willing  to  tell  you.  I  have  gone 
out  into  the  fields  and  woods  ever  since  I  was  a 
child.  I  was  born  with  a  love  of  it.  Everything 
in  the  fields  is  so  pure  and  gentle.  In  the  house  I 
feel  in  prison,  but  when  I  come  to  a  place  like  this 
under  the  trees,  and  with  those  clear  pools  to  look 
into,  or  out  in  the  sunshine  looking  up  at  the  blue 
sky  or  the  white  clouds,  I  feel  freer,  and  as  though 
God  was  nearer  me  ;  and  I  can  think,  too,  of  my  dear 


200  A  Maiden. 

mother,  who  always  seems  nearer  to  me  in  such  a 
place  than  anywhere  else,  except  in  our  parish 
church,  perhaps,  and  of  many  things  which  a 
young  person  like  me  ought  to  think  of." 

She  said  this,  not  looking  at  him  but  beyond 
him  down  the  stream,  and  as  it  were  speaking  to 
herself;  and  she  said  it  too  with  a  perfectly  im- 
passive face  and  without  the  least  embarrassment 
or  consciousness  of  self;  quite  as  a  child  talks. 
Edward  Vaughn  had  never  heard  that  kind  of  talk 
from  a  woman  in  all  his  life.  It  was  certainly  not 
the  talk  that  one  hears  in  the  waltz  or  at  a  din- 
ner party.  He  had  heard  women  discourse  on 
fashion,  art,  love,  even  religion,  but  quite  in  an 
elegant  way ;  but  anything  so  fresh,  so  simple,  so 
childlike  in  a  woman  he  had  actually  never  met. 
Her  words  were  not  those  of  a  rustic,  and  her  way 
was  not  exactly  like  that  of  a  lady  according  to 
the  world.  He  actually  experienced  a  new  sensa- 
tion. It  was  as  though  he  had  caught  into  his 
society  a  new  species  of  the  genus  female.  He 
might  neither  know  nor  care  what  it  was  like ;  but 
a  rare  bird  like  this  it  was  well  worth  his  while  to 
make  sing  a  little.  Therefore  he  opened  wide  his 
eyes  for  a  good  look  at  her.  It  was  only  a  girl  in 
a  gray  dress.  There  was  a  queer,  puzzling,  half- 
satiric  expression  in  his  face.  "  So,  then,  you  be- 
lieve in  God?" 

Her  face  flushed  red  at  once.  This  time  she 
looked  straight  at  him. 


A  Maiden.  201 

"Believe  in  God?  Believe  in  God?"  she  said. 
"  Why  do  you  speak  so  ?  Do  you  disbelieve  in 
Him  ?  "  and  her  nature  seemed  shrinking  back  and 
away  from  him  into  itself,  as  if  to  hide  from  some- 
thing that  sadly  hurt  it.  "  I  shall  not  answer 
that  question,  sir." 

"  I  meant  no  offence.  People  are  apt  to  use 
phrases  carelessly,  and  I  merely  wished  to  learn 
whether  you  realized  what  you  were  saying.  I 
certainly  believe  in  God,  if  not  in  your  way,  at 
least  in  my  own,  and  if  I  didn't  I  would  try  and 
lay  a  train  of  gunpowder  to  blow  up  the  world  and 
rid  it  of  some  of  the  insects  that  crawl  over  it." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  that,  sir,"  she  re- 
plied. "  I  could  not  respect  any  one  who  spoke 
differently.  I  do  not  mean  you,  but  such  a  person 
would  seem  a  monster  without  heart  or  head. 
Let  me  show  you  something.  Please  look  down 
stream,"  and  she  pointed  with  her  hand.  "Look 
through  these  trees  with  the  sunshine  on  them, 
down  over  those  birches  and  maples,  and  that  very 
blue  sky  beyond.  In  one  sense  their  beauty  would 
be  the  same  if  there  were  no  God,  but  the  sense  of 
God  fills  them  with  poetry  and  tenderness,  and  a 
spiritual  beauty,  if  I  may  call  it  so,  which  is  worth 
all  the  rest." 

Edward  Vaughn  was  not  in  the  mood  to  hear 
sermons ;  and  there  was  something  a  trifle  absurd 
to  have  a  girl  for  preacher,  and  pious  things  were 


202  A  Maiden. 

not  exactly  in  his  line,  and  here  he  was  under 
instruction.  It  was  a  new  role  that  puzzled  him. 
So  he  went  back  to  the  old,  half-veiled  sarcasm. 

"  Since,  then,  I  have  won  your  respect  by  my 
correct  answer,  will  you  be  so  kind  as  to  tell  me 
what  sort  of  wonders  you  have  caged  up  in  that 
basket  on  your  arm.  Are  you  a  botanist  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  say  you  had  won  my  respect.  You 
are  a  stranger  to  me,  and  I  do  not  know  you.  I 
trust  you  are  worthy  of  a  woman's  respect.  I 
have  no  objection  to  show  you  my  basket." 

Edward  Vaughn  was  actually  puzzled.  This 
woman  had  somehow  a  masterful  way  about  her, 
that  with  its  simple  truthfulness  was  breaking 
down  the  fence  of  his  clever  words  and  reaching 
the  very  heart  of  the  matter,  conquered  in  the 
dispute.  Yet  of  the  world,  so  called,  he  knew 
ages  more  than  she  who  had  never  been  outside 
a  country  village.  With  a  woman  like  Isabel 
Seaton  he  could  hold  his  own  through  all  the 
intracacies  of  subtle  sayings,  but  with  this  child 
almost  he  was  breaking  down.  That  touched  his 
pride  first.  "  It  is  a  country  girl,  romantic.  Bah  !  " 
he  thought.  Next  he  felt  somehow,  deep  down  in 
his  soul,  that  here  was  a  pure,  simple,  innocent, 
woman's  nature,  and  truth  to  say  he  reverenced  it, 
as  men  always  reverence  —  women.  Then  upon 
the  spot  he  actually  became  sincere  in  his  own 
heart,  which  went  back  in  secret  sympathy  and 


A  Maiden.  203 

homage  towards  her  innocency,  and  when  he 
spoke  again  he  had  laid  aside  a  certain  frivolity 
which  was  used  to  tone  all  his  speech. 

"  Please  show  me  your  basket." 

So  she  put  down  her  basket  and  the  ferns  in  her 
hand  and  took  out  the'  contents.  ''These  are 
mosses  off  the  stones  and  tree-trunks,"  she  said, 
as  she  took  out  and  laid  on  the  ground  exquisite 
pieces  of  moss.  "  I  have  gathered  these  for  my 
fernery.  See,  they  are  softer  than  velvet,  and 
under  the  trees  where  they  grow  is  a  carpet  such 
as  not  even  queens  have." 

"  Yes,  they  are  very  beautiful,  and  each  has  a 
shading  of  its  own  besides,  such  as  no  painter 
could  put  on  with  his  brush.  Yes,  Miss  Farewell, 
I  do  believe  in  God.  Only  sometimes,  when  I  see 
how  the  world  goes,  and  men  and  women  act,  it 
seems  as  though  He  were  gone  to  sleep. 

"  God  is  good  enough,  as  these  mosses  show,  and 
men  like  me  have  sometimes  religious  thoughts ; 
but  then,  when  we  go  out  into  the  world  again  we 
go  down  to  its  level  and  live  practical  atheists. 
But  you  don't  know  the  world,  and  I  hope  you 
never  may.  There's  not  much  romance  nor  reli- 
gion to  it,  nor  anything  else  than  money.  I  have 
got  money,  Miss,  plenty  of  it,  more  than  is  good, 
maybe,  but  I'd  give  a  round  half  of  it  if  I  could 
have  a  child's  faith  again  and  believe  in  God  as 
you  seem  to." 


204  A  Maiden. 

"  I  don't  know  the  world,"  she  said,  "  and  if  it 
makes  one  wicked  I  don't  wish  to  know  it,  but  I 
know  that  God  is  everywhere,  our  Father,  and 
the  more  I  believe  in  Him  the  more  happy  and 
content  I  am." 

"I  would  do  nothing  to  disturb  your  faith." 
So  then  Edward  Vaughn  helped  her  put  back  her 
mosses  into  the  basket  and  gather  up  her  ferns 
from  the  stone  where  she  had  laid  them.  "You 
had  better  not  try  to  follow  the  stream  down,  for 
below,  the  last  freshet  has  jammed  its  bed  full  of 
floatwood  and  a  tree  has  fallen  across  it.  There's 
a  pair  of  bars  just  this  side,  where  you  had  better 
go  on  to  the  upland." 

"  I  know  the  bars  very  well,  thank  you,  and 
every  rod  of  ground  about  here.  The  woods  are 
my  garden.  Good  day." 

And  Edward  Vaughn  did  not  presume  to  fol- 
low her,  but  watched  until  she  had  passed  the 
bars.  The  interview  had  affected  him  strangely. 
Lucy  Farewell's  presence  lent  something  to  his 
life  which  was  as  a  pure,  cool,  evening  breeze  from 
the  hills  on  the  heated  and  worn  reaper  in  the 
sultry  day.  There  are  those  who,  when  we  meet 
them,  tone  us  up  to  a  purer  life,  and  Lucy  Fare- 
well was  one  of  them,  for  her  soul  was  pure  and 
childlike.  Edward  Vaughn  had  confessed  his 
inferiority  to  her. 

He  went  on  fishing  up  stream. 


CHAPTER     XIX. 

"  THE   REVIVAL." 

THE  revival  was  in  full  blast  at  the  meeting- 
house. Under  a  great  heat,  many  germs  of  things 
had  sprouted  up  in  the  hearts  which  had  been 
exposed  to  the  fire  of  the  passionate  prayers  and 
warnings  spoken  there.  On  some  a  great  change 
had  been  wrought,  and  ever  after,  till  their  life's 
end,  they  walked  with  a  graver  and  wiser  step  in  the 
paths  of  this  world,  looking  for  a  great,  pure  rest 
to  come.  On  others,  greatly  moved  for  a  season, 
it  was  as  though  a  whirlwind  broke,  which,  when 
it  passed,  left  them  stunned  and  dulled  henceforth 
towards  things  spiritual.  It  was  a  storm  that  fed 
some  flowers  but  broke  others  upon  the  stalk. 

Mr.  Lefingwell  consented  to,  rather  than  coun- 
selled, the  performance.  But  Deacon  Hobbs  and 
those  who  thought  with  him  were  in  their  ele- 
ment. It  is  so  very  comfortable  for  the  man 
beside  the  fire  to  counsel  the  vagrant  in  the  snow 
to  be  warmed  and  fed  in  a  charity  that  costs  him 
only  words.  The  Deacon  began,  where  charity 
does,  at  home,  and  in  his  family  of  late  he  had 
been  very  urgent  with  his  daughter,  Prudence 


206  "The  Revival" 

Hobbs.  The  mother  of  Prudence  Hobbs  was 
long  since  in  her  grave,  but  she  had  been  a  true, 
gentle  woman,  for  the  Deacon  had  wed  with 
women  of  a  far  nobler  strain  than  his,  in  that 
mysterious  Providence  at  work  everywhere  around 
us,  which  often  allots  to  very  mean  men  noble 
wives,  as  though  the  costliest  diamonds  were  to 
be  worn  upon  the  ugliest  hands.  Prudence  had 
inherited  her  mother's  nature.  She  had  grown  up 
from  a  frail,  silent,  meditative  child  to  a  sensi- 
tive and  now  quite  handsome  woman.  But  her 
girlhood  had  been  shadowed  by  her  austere  home. 
From  that  home  everything  beautiful  had  been 
banished  except  the  sunshine  which  crept  in  at 
the  windows,  or  the  honeysuckle  that  trailed  itself 
around  the  two  posts  of  the  front  door.  The 
religion  indoors  was  iron,  and  iron  is  cold,  and 
frays  or  chills.  It  was  not  the  Puritan  religion, 
for  that  had  always  a  fierce  flame  to  it,  that  no 
wise  man  ever  spoke  lightly  of,  but  the  mere  skel- 
eton of  an  ancient  faith,  with  the  inside  burnt 
out.  In  such  an  atmosphere  Prudence  Hobbs  had 
grown  to  womanhood,  but,  while  she  outwardly 
obeyed  its  rule,  her  young  mind  rebelled  against 
its  barriers,  and,  lifting  itself  up  to  find  something 
to  feed  its  hunger,  had  dreamed  far  away  into  the 
enchanted  land  which  the  holy  angels  guard  for 
such  as  she,  and  craved  religion.  This  was  the 
soul  that  "  the  revival"  fell  down  upon  in  Deacon 


"  The  Revival^  207 

Hobbs'  house.  To  say  that  he  understood  his 
daughter  would  be  to  say  that  the  clod  compre- 
hends the  flower  that  springs  from  it.  But 
because  he  did  not  understand  his  daughter  he 
smote  her  sorely  by  all  he  did.  Humble  before 
her  own  faults,  with  a  humility  lie  could  never 
know,  she  needed  gentle  hands  to  lead  her 
whither  her  own  heart  prayed  to  go,  but  did  not 
know  the  way,  and  he  gave  her  bitter  Hebrew  roots 
for  diet,  but  not  the  Gospel.  It  was  not  so  much 
that  she  feared  to  suffer  God's  wrath  as  prayed  to 
be  made  His  child.  Her  father's  will  had  forced 
her  to  the  revival,  and  she  had  sat  through  all, 
pale,  silent,  and  outwardly  unmoved.  But  the 
revival  smote  upon  a  soul  already  sore,  while  at 
home  the  Deacon  urged  the  fire.  It  was  as 
though  to  give  a  hungry  man  a  furnace. 

It  was  the  last  night  of  the  revival,  and  the 
Deacon  called  for  his  daughter.  She  was  not  in 
the  house.  Perhaps  she  had  gone  before  to  the 
meeting.  Yet  she  was  not  there,  and  the  Deacon 
turned  uneasily  in  his  seat  several  times  during 
meeting  to  search  for  her  among  the  people. 
After  service,  he  inquired  of  several.  No  one 
had  seen  her.  It  was  certainly  very  strange,  for 
she  had  been  always  in  her  place  at  these  devo- 
tions ;  and  the  Deacon,  with  an  unquiet  air,  walked 
rapidly  home.  She  was  not  there  either.  Nine, 
ten  o'clock,  and  she  did  not  come.  She  had  sel- 


208  "  The  Revival." 

dom  been  out  late  at  night,  and  never  alone. 
It  was  time  to  arouse  the  neighbors.  The  neigh- 
bors searched  late  through  the  town,  and  when,  as 
the  first  faint  bars  of  light  appeared  in  the  east, 
the  tired  men  went  home,  they  had  found  nothing. 
Prudence  Hobbs  had  disappeared. 

But  where  had  she  gone?  All  that  day  in  her 
chamber  she  had  heard  in  her  heart :  "  The  soul 
that  sinneth  it  shall  die,"  and  no  angel  had  spoken 
any  other  word.  Then  the  great  awful  thought 
of  judgment  to  come  rose  up  before  her  —  a  cloud 
of  darkness  that  overawed  and  enwrapped  her  soul 
with  blackness.  Even  hope  seemed  to  die ;  and 
to  her  sensitive  nature  she  was  sinking  to  the  pit, 
with  none  to  help.  Her  brain  throbbed;  her 
face  was  hot  and  feverish ;  she  could  not  weep ; 
only  occasionally  she  moaned.  The  day  had 
grown  towards  the  evening.  Then  with  a  forlorn 
and  desperate  heart  she  rose  up,  and  putting  on 
her  hat  and  shawl  went  out,  she  knew  not  and 
cared  not  whither.  She  met  none  as  she  crossed 
the  common ;  but  she  went  down  quite  mechani- 
cally towards  the  river.  The  evening  air  cooled 
her  brain  a  trifle,  as  she  found  herself  by  the 
graveyard,  which  stood  on  a  bluff  overlooking  the 
flood  below.  She  passed  in  through  the  open  gate, 
straight  on  to  her  mother's  grave,  and,  throwing 
herself  prostrate  upon  it,  in  the  grass  wet  with  the 
dew,  lay  there  motionless,  as  if  dead.  Then  she 


"  The  Revival"  209 

prayed  a  strangely  mixed  human  prayer;  prayed 
to  her  dead  mother,  who  bore  her,  to  have  mercy 
on  her  and  beseech  that  God  whom  she  could 
not  dare  approach  —  He  was  so  terrible  —  to  de- 
liver her  and  make  her  His  ;  and  then  again,  in  her 
desperation,  she  prayed  deep  dov^n  at  her  soul's 
centre  even  to  Him  for  pardon.  And  thus  she 
prayed,  even  till  the  stars,  swung  in  their  orbits  by 
His  hand,  had  risen  high  above  her;  and  yet  her 
soul  had  heard  no  answer. 

O  stars,  serene  and  pure  in  the  spring  nights  !  O 
skies  that  overarch  us,  the  matchless  temple  dome 
upon  the  everlasting  hills  !  O  earth,  most  motherly 
and  gentle ! — you  have  no  lips  to  speak  our  pardon ; 
but  He  who  made  you  thus  and  suffered  once  for 
all  —  even  for  her  —  hath  spoken  by  His  cross  and 
passion  that  He  is  merciful,  that  He  will  pardon ! 

Then  she  betook  herself  to  the  road  again,  and 
went,  not  knowing  or  caring  whither.  The  sound 
of  the  river  near  her  flowing  over  the  stones 
sounded  like  a  dirge.  On  —  tired,  feverish,  con- 
sumed of  the  flame  in  her  —  she  went  to  the  Factory 
Village.  The  lights  were  out  and  the  shops  shut ; 
there  were  no  people  in  the  empty  streets,  as 
though  the  very  town  was  dead  and  gone  to  judg- 
ment. She  passed  on  to  the  outskirts  of  the 
village.  Down  the  lane,  on  her  left,  in  a  solitary 
house,  there  was  a  light  burning.  She  knew  it 
well  —  the  House  of  Idols,  the  Roman  Catholic 


210  "  The  Revival:' 

meeting-house,  as  the  folks  called  it.     It  was  the 
last  place,  she  knew,  that  a  child  of  the  Puritans 
should  ever  enter.     What  they  worshipped  there 
she  had  never  learned,  only  she  had  often  heard  it 
said  that  they  were  very  wicked  people,  who  had 
burnt    pious    folks    under    Queen    Mary,    as   she 
had  read  in  Foxe's  "  Book  of  Martyrs."     Yet  what 
did   it    matter   to    her,    under    God's   wrath,   and 
doomed  ?  She  turned  down  the  lane  until  she  came 
to  the  building.     Then  she  sat  down  on  its  stone 
steps  and  hid  her  face  in  her  shawl,  until  she  was 
chilled  through.     Then  she  tried  the  door;  it  was 
locked.     Then  she   went  round  in  the  wet  grass 
by  the  north  side.     The  windows  were  all   shut. 
There  was  a  door  in  a  little  room  which  projected 
from  the  building  at  the  further  end.     She  tried  it; 
it  opened,  and  she  entered.     It  was  a  little  room 
with  a  table  in  it,  and  a  white  dress  or  something 
lay  on  one  of  the  chairs  —  a  covering  for  idols,  may- 
be.   Then  she  passed  into  the  church  itself.    At  the 
end  where  she  stood  there  was  a  dim  lamp,  swung 
by  a  chain  from  the  ceiling,  and  to  her  left  what 
looked  like  a  great  white  catafalque,  or  tomb,  as 
she  thought,  with  great  candles  on  it,  and  in  the 
centre  a  huge  cross.     That  was  all  she  could  see. 
What  a  strange  place,  and  the  idols  were  no  doubt 
close  at  hand,  perhaps  in  that  white  tomb  before 
her.     Yet  she  might  as  well  go  to  the  pit  from 
here  as  anywhere. 


"  The  RevivaV  211 

She  flung  herself  upon  some  steps  under  the 
lamp,  facing  that  great  white  tomb.  Sometimes, 
to  her  disturbed  vision,  it  seemed  bursting  into 
flames,  and  she  thought  she  heard  groans.  Then 
impish  and  devilish  shadows  seemed  dancing  round 
the  cross  and  mocking  it,  while  she  waited  for 
them  to  turn  on  her.  So  in  her  delirium  she  kept 
her  vigil  before  the  altar,  until,  exhausted,  she  fell 
asleep. 

The  Roman  Catholic  chapel  was  a  building 
very  like  a  barn,  with  a  large  red  cross  upon 
its  front.  Otherwise  it  was  very  like  all  such 
places.  It  was  not  an  elegant  edifice,  but  its 
worshippers  were  not  ashamed  of  it.  It  was  the 
best  they  could.  Father  Doherty  was  the  priest 
in  charge ;  and  was  very  like  a  great  many  other 
priests.  He  had  a  broad,  red,  good-humored  face 
and  large,  gray  eyes  with  a  slight  squint  to 
them.  He  was  often  called  by  some  a  fat,  lazy 
monk,  just  as  though  it  was  a  sin  for  a  Christian  to 
be  fat  and  Christians  might  not  be  lazy.  It  was  a 
part  of  that  ascetic  temper  which  razeed  its  hat  to 
Puritan  plainness  but  forgot  to  cut  its  hair.  The 
divines  of  Genevan  origin,  when  studied  in  a  por- 
trait gallery,  have  an  emaciated  look,  though  in 
this  the  hermits  of  the  Roman  schools  outdo 
them ;  and  in  their  theology,  as  exemplified  in 
mortals,  leanness  was  akin  to  godliness.  The 
Catholic  Church  has  never  held  it  n  sin  in  a  priest 


212  "  The  Revival." 

to  be  fat.  Father  Doherty  was  therefore  fat,  and 
was  not  ashamed  to  be  so. 

When  he  came  to  his  chapel,  to  make  his  devo- 
tions, the  morning  after  Prudence  Hobbs  had  dis- 
appeared, he  unlocked  the  front  door  and  went  in. 
There  was  a  more  than  slight  flavor  of  old  clothes 
about  the  building,  and  the  seats  were  wooden,  and 
at  his  college  he  had  seen  finer  sanctuaries,  but 
this  was  his  cure  and  he  was  proud  of  it,  for  the 
altar-cloths  were  always  kept  white  and  dusted, 
and  service  was  exactly  rendered.  Father  Doherty 
had  a  large  heart  and  a  little  learning,  but  he  knew 
how  to  do  his  work,  and  did  it,  while  he  left  his 
superiors  to  manage  greater  affairs  than  his,  ac- 
cording to  their  wit. 

He  approached  the  altar.  He  stopped  short, 
however,  before  he  got  there.  First  he  crossed 
himself  and  began  a  Pater  Noster.  Then  he  broke 
into  ejaculations.  "  Blessed  Virgin !  and  all  the 
saints !  it  is  a  woman ! "  Yes,  a  woman  asleep 
under  her  shawl  in  Father  Doherty's  chapel !  He 
crossed  himself  again,  and  then  shook  her  by  the 
shoulder.  "  Wake  up,  young  woman.  What  are 
you  doing  here  ?  " 

Prudence  Hobbs,  for  it  was  she,  slowly  roused 
herself  as  though  she  had  slept  deep  down  toward 
somewhere,  opened  her  eyes  half  dreamily,  and 
then  sat  up.  The  eyes  red  with  weeping,  and  the 
worn  face  under  the  dishevelled  hair,  which  she 


"  The  Revival."  213 

made  several  useless  attempts  to  brush  back  from 
her  forehead,  showed  the  father  at  once  that 
here  was  some  one  in  distress. 

He  said  therefore  gently,  "  My  poor  child,  how 
came  you  here?" 

"  I  hardly  know  myself." 

"  Whose  daughter  are  you  ?  " 

"Deacon  Hobbs'." 

Father  Doherty  crossed  himself  again.  Deacon 
Hobbs  he  knew  as  a  man  who  thought  that  what 
was  Roman  Catholic  was  devilish,  and  what  was 
anti-Roman  Catholic  was  holiness  ;  and  for  Deacon 
Hobbs'  daughter  to  be  found  in  his  chapel  quite 
perplexed  the  good  man.  He  was  also  a  little 
alarmed.  But  he  repeated  his  question.  "  How 
came  you  here,  my  child?" 

He  waited  some  time  for  his  answer.  The  black- 
ness was  returning  to  her  heart  with  her  waking. 
First  she  shuddered  a  cold,  suffering  shudder. 
Then  she  held  both  hands  to  her  head,  as  though 
there  was  something  heavy  on  her  brain.  Then 
finally  she  burst  into  tears  and  sobbed.  The  priest 
let  her  cry  it  out.  When  that  was  done,  he  said, 
very  quietly,  "Do  not  distress  yourself  so,  my 
child.  Maybe  I  can  help  you?  Tell  me  what 
troubles  you.  Is  it  sin  ?  " 

She  shuddered  again.     "  Yes." 

"  Is  it  mortal  sin  ?  Can  you  tell  me  what  it  is  ? 
I  am  an  old  man  "  (Father  Doherty  was  forty, 


214  "  The  Revival" 

maybe).  "  Now  tell  me,  quite  like  your 
father." 

The  shudder  passed  over  her  again,  but  she  said 
nothing.  The  priest  waited  patiently.  "  Yes," 
she  said  at  last,  "  I  am  a  great  sinner  and  there  is 
no  mercy  for  me.  I  am  lost  forever." 

"  But  why  ?  God  is  all  mercy.  The  Virgin,  a 
woman  like  you,  and  yet  Mother  of  God,  has 
mercy.  All  the  saints  have  mercy.  There  is 
mercy  for  everybody.  Be  comforted,  my  child. 
You  wrong  yourself." 

"No,  I  can't  be  religious.  I  have  tried  it  all  my 
days  and  I  can't  get  religion.  Father  says  I  shall 
be  lost.  A  great  many  have  got  religion  at  the 
revival,  and  I  have  been  to  all  the  meetings  and 
yet  I  am  worse  than  ever.  I  can't  be  good  and 
feel  as  they  say  I  should.  And  I  know  I  shall 
never  be  saved ;  "  and  the  old  shudder  came  over 
her  again.  It  was  all  plain  now  to  the  priest's 
mind.  She  was  a  victim  to  the  revival  which  he 
heard  was  going  on  at  the  meeting-house  in  Old 
Town  ;  and  a  sort  of  uncatholic  anathema  passed 
through  his  heart  as  he  saw  the  young  girl's 
misery ;  but  he  was  too  well  trained  to  show  it, 
and  he  merely  said,  "Have  you  a  mother,  my 
child?" 

"  My  mother  is  dead." 

"Do    you   remember   her?     Was   she   kind   to 

you?" 


"  The  Revival:'  215 

"  Yes ;  she  was  a  dear  mother.  I  wish  I  was 
with  her"  (sobbing  again). 

"  Now  then,  think  of  your  mother,  all  she  was 
to  you,  holding  you  on  her  bosom  as  a  baby.  But 
God  is  more  loving  than  she  was,  insomuch  as  He 
is  greater  than  she  was.  He  is  all  love  ;  and  here 
through  his  Church,  and  hereafter  in  His  own  per- 
son, He  will  hold  you  to  His  heart,  as  His  child. 
It  will  be  a  great  sin  in  you  not  to  trust  Him. 
Your  mother  trusted  Him,  I  hope,  and  you  must." 

The  young  girl  grew  more  quiet  under  his 
reassuring  words.  The  priest  was  silent  a  few 
moments,  as  if  in  thought.  Then  he  said,  "  Do 
you  know  anything  about  the  Church,  my  child?" 

"What  Church?" 

"The  Church  —  our  Church  —  my  Church." 

She  looked  up  honestly  into  his  face.  "  I  know 
they  say  you  are  very  wicked  people  and  worship 
idols.  But  you  are  very  kind  to  me.  Is  it  true 
what  they  say  ?  " 

Father  Doherty's  face  grew  grave  with  an  ex- 
pression of  sorrow  on  it.  Then  he  said,  "I 
would  that  you  and  all  your  race  were  children  of 
the  Catholic  Church,  and  for  that  we  pray  without 
ceasing.  But  you  are  not  of  the  mind  that  would 
ever  make  you  one,  I  see.  Yet  you  must  serve 
God  somehow,  for  He  is  full  of  love.  Now  then, 
you  must  go  home." 

She  shuddered.  "  I  cannot  go  there.  I  am  un- 
happy." 


216  "  The  Revival' 

"  But,  ray  child,  you  must.  It  is  your  place. 
Come,  now,  I  will  help  you  to  rise,"  and  he  held 
out  his  hand  for  her. 

She  tried  to  rise,  but  almost  fainted.  It  was  an 
awkward  dilemma  for  the  good  father.  "  Ah,  I 
see,"  he  said,  "  you  are  quite  worn  out.  Be  quiet  a 
moment  till  I  come  back.  He  came  back  from  the 
vestry  with  a  cup.  "  Here,  drink  this.  It  is  wine." 
And  she  obeyed. 

"  Now  then,  let  us  go."  She  rose  up  by  his  aid, 
and  went  down  to  the  door,  the  priest  steadying 
her.  But  she  was  very  weak. 

"  You  will  never  get  home,  my  child,  in  this  way. 
You  can  hardly  walk  straight.  Lean  on  me."  So, 
leaning  on  him,  Father  Doherty  led  her  to  the 
little  parsonage  just  by.  The  old  Irish  house- 
keeper stared  aghast  at  the  sight  as  he  led  her  in. 

"  Here,  Bridget,  give  this  poor  child  some  break- 
fast; she  is  very  weak."  And  Bridget,  with  the 
bustling,  kindly  air  of  her  sex  and  nation,  gave  her 
in  due  time  some  breakfast.  Then  Bridget  sug- 
gested a  brush  and  comb  and  a  little  cold  water, 
and  after  Prudence  Hobbs  had  made  her  toilette 
that  sad,  pure  face  of  hers,  whether  Protestant  or 
Catholic,  was  not  exactly  homely. 

When  Prudence  Hobbs  had  had  due  time  to 
refresh  herself,  Father  Doherty  again  made  his 
appearance  from  his  cell,  or  wherever  such  priests 
have  their  oratory  in  Protestant  land,  and  in- 
spected his  guest. 


"  The  EevivaV  217 

"  You  feel  better,  my  child,  for  your  breakfast, 
I  see.  Now  shall  we  go  home  ?  " 

The  old  shudder  passed  over  her  again.  "No; 
not  home,"  she  said  with  vehemence ;  "  anywhere 
but  there.  I  have  been  so  wretched." 

The  good  father  was  used  to  be  obeyed. 
Besides,  he  had  a  keen  sense  of  the  ludicrous,  and 
the  additional  knowledge  that  if  he  was  caught 
proselytizing  a  Protestant  in  that  place,  and,  more- 
over, one  of  Deacon  Hobbs'  strain,  he  might  have 
his  house  pulled  down  about  his  ears.  For  these 
several  reasons,  therefore,  he  proposed  to  get  the 
unfortunate  girl  off  his  hands  as  soon  as  possible. 
Yet  he  was  gentle. 

"  Tell  me,  my  child,  if  you  won't  go  home,  what 
I  am  to  do  with  you  here.  Blessed  Virgin  !  how 
can  I  have  any  woman  in  my  house,  except  the 
cook  ?  And  suppose  your  father  should  find  you 
here.  He  would  have  me,  your  friend,  Father 
Doherty,  hung  for  a  witch." 

Yet  her  distress  increased.  "Have  mercy  on 
me,"  she  cried ;  "  I  am  willing  to  go  anywhere  but 
into  the  misery  from  which  I  have  fled.  Tell  me 
what  to  do." 

Father  Doherty  held  the  forefinger  of  his  right 
hand  to  his  lip  and  mused.  It  was  a  distressing 
case  of  conscience.  If  he  could  have  made  her 
his  he  would,  and  he  was  now  about  to  return  her 
to  a  religion  which  she  loathed,  and  in  which,  as 


218  "  The  Revival" 

he  thought,  salvation  might  be  more  than  difficult. 
And  yet  to  meddle  might  be  dangerous.  He 
.hit  upon  a  compromise,  that  partly  satisfied  him. 
"  I  have  it,"  he  cried,  starting  up.  "  I  won't  carry 
you  back  to  the  folks  that  have  tormented  you,  my 
child,  but  you  shall  go  to  Parson  Ardenne.  He 
won't  bother  you  with  their  nonsense,  and  he  may 
do  you  good.  Are  you  willing  ?" 

Prudence  Hobbs  assented,  and  the  two  left 
Bridget  wondering  in  the  kitchen,  as  she  peered 
after  them  through  the  blinds,  where  on  earth  the 
father  had  found  that  Protestant.  The  same 
thought  occurred  to  several  people  who  met  them 
as  they  passed  through  the  Village,  but  the  father 
kept  on  with  his  charge,  walking  before  her,  for 
spiritual  safety,  perhaps,  until  he  was  near  the 
Common.  There,  as  chance  would  have  it,  he 
saw  Mr.  Ardenne  coming  down  the  street. 

"  Now,  my  child,  here  comes  Parson  Ardenne, 
who  will  put  you  all  right." 

The  rector,  as  he  saw  the  two,  also  wondered. 
He  merely  said,  "  The  town  was  alarmed  last 
night  for  the  safety  of  this  young  person.  Where 
did  you  find  her,  Father  ?  " 

"  In  my  chapel  asleep,  poor  child.  They  have 
been  teasing  her  with  their  revival,  and  she  is 
quite  melancholy  like,  poor  thing.  She  is  afraid 
to  go  home,  and  I  was  bringing  her  up  to  you 
just  to  comfort  and  pacify  the  lamb  a  little — - 


"  The  Revival^  219 

plague  on  all  this  nonsense.  I'm  of  the  opinion 
that  this  young  woman  has  had  too  much  preach- 
ing lately,  and  wants  a  little  instruction  just  now. 
And  you  are  the  man  to  give  her  that." 

Mr.  Ardenne  inquired  into  the  case  briefly.  It 
was  a  plain  one.  The  young  girl  before  him  was 
plainly  in  that  excitement  which  might  become 
very  dangerous  on  any  further  provocation.  It 
was  necessary  that  she  should  be  quieted,  and,  as 
she  shrank  from  her  home  with  an  almost  insane 
vehemence,  it  only  remained  to  decide  where  she 
should  go.  The  minister  bethought  himself. 
"  Have  you  any  objection  to  go  to  Miss  Kendrick's, 
just  by  here  ?  She  is  a  kind  woman,  and  when  I 
tell  her  about  you  she  will  take  good  care  of  you." 
Prudence  Hobbs,  in  a  sort  of  hopeless  resignation, 
rather  than  any  very  decided  wish,  assented. 

"  Good-bye,  my  child,"  said  Father  Doherty,  "the 
Holy  Virgin  keep  you,"  and  he  turned  back  again. 
He  was  a  Roman  priest,  but  he  was  also  a  human 
being  ;  and  under  all  garbs,  and  despite  all  mortal 
errors,  one  finds  often  a  loving  heart  —  the  inefface- 
able image  of  God. 

'Miss  Mary  was  surprised  by  her  two  visitors 
just  as  she  was  overseeing  her  morning's  house- 
work. She  had  heard  of  Prudence  Hobbs'  disap- 
pearance. Mr.  Ardenne  explained  the  situation. 
"  Above  all,  she  needs  quiet.  You  must  get  her 
to  sleep  somehow."  Miss  Mary  took  her  charge  in 


220  "The  Revival." 

hand.  "Come,"  she  said,  "you  are  worn  out  and 
need  sleep."  So  she  took  her  into  her  own  room. 
Then  she  took  off  her  shawl  and  hat.  Next  she 
made  her  comfortable  on  her  own  sofa,  with  pil- 
lows. She  closed  the  blinds,  and  made  the  room 
quite  dark.  Then  she  kissed  the  worn  girl  and 
said,  "  I  will  come  back  in  a  moment  and  sit  by 
you  till  you  go  to  sleep." 

"  Her  head  is  very  hot,"  she  said  to  Mr.  Ardenne 
in  the  hall.  "  There  is  danger  of  brain  fever. 
Don't  let  the  Deacon  come  here  to-day  on  any 
account.  If  I  am  let  alone,  I  think  I  can  carry 
her  through." 

"  I  am  going  to  find  her  father,"  he  said,  and 
went  out. 

Miss  Mary  went  back  to  the  dark  room,  and 
sitting  down  by  the  side  of  her  patient,  bathed 
gently  her  forehead  in  camphor,  until  she  fell  into 
a  quiet  sleep. 

Mr.  Ardenne  found  Deacon  Hobbs  and  told  him 
where  his  daughter  was.  He  also  explained  to 
him,  as  politely  as  he  could,  her  distress  and  the 
causes  of  it.  The  Deacon's  amazement  was  not  to 
be  described,  except  in  this  way,  that  while  it  was 
noisy,  it  was  somehow  wooden  and  creaky  ;  since 
his  nature,  as  has  been  told,  had  no  juices  in  it,  and 
his  very  passions,  such  as  he  had,  lacked  a  certain 
fire  of  earnestness  which  makes  even  mere  human 
passion  somehow  decent.  He  interrupted  the 


"  The  Revival^  221 

minister's  story  several  times  with  ejaculations  of 
a  pious  horror,  but  the  latter  got  through  at  last, 
saying,  "I  am  mixed  up  in  this  matter  quite 
accidentally,  and  only  wish  as  a  Christian  man  to 
be  of  any  service  I  can  to  you  and  your  daughter." 

"  You  would  be  glad  to  make  her  one  of  yours, 
I  suppose,"  the  Deacon  said. 

"  I  have  made  no  attempt  that  way,  and  I  do  not 
propose  to  do  so,  at  least,  against  your  will.  The 
whole  matter  rests  with  you,  as  her  father." 
'••The  Deacon  started  up  to  go  to  his  daughter,  to 
comfort  her  with  a  new  volume  of  the  Law,  and 
especially  that  which  teaches  us  to  obey  our 
parents.  "  My  daughter  was  always  stubborn  and 
headstrong,  and  now  she  has  run  away  from  me. 
She  must  obey." 

"  If  you  go  to  her  to-day  you  will  peril  her  life. 
She  is  in  a  very  critical  state,  and  you  might  drive 
her  to  insanity  by  saying  anything  to  her  just  now. 
When  she  is  in  a  calmer  mood  you  can  do  as  you 
like.  But  as  things  are,  it  would  be  merely  in- 
human to  molest  her,  and  I  think  the  town's  folk 
would  blame  you  severely." 

The  Deacon  sat  down  again.  He  had  an  appetite 
for  popularity,  as  men  are  prone  to  crave  that  most 
which  they  are  doomed  most  to  lack. 

"  When  my  daughter  repents  and  wishes  to  see 
me,  I  will  go  to  her." 

Deacon  Hobbs  himself  had  never  sinned  ! 


CHAPTER    XX. 

THE   OLD   AND   THE   NEW   IN    STRIFE. 

WHEN  Prudence  Hobbs  woke  next  morning  she 
was  refreshed  indeed,  but  the  old  pain  came  back 
to  her  heart  again.  Both  the  Deacon  and  Mr. 
Ardenne  had  been  at  the  house  to  inquire  for  her, 
but  no  one,  by  the  doctor's  orders,  had  seen  her. 
The  two  ladies  had  nursed  her  tenderly ;  and, 
when  evening  prayers  had  been  said  in  her  sick 
chamber,  Miss  Mary  kneeling  by  the  invalid's  bed, 
in  the  silence  that  followed,  before  they  rose  from 
their  knees,  they  both  prayed  for  her  "  the  peace 
that  passeth  understanding." 

It  was  well  tha't  Prudence  Hobbs  had  had  her 
breakfast  before  the  Deacon  came  —  loud,  rigid, 
solemn,  insisting  to  see  his  daughter.  Miss  Mary 
could  not  very  well  deny  him,  so  he  came  in. 
Neither  his  daughter's  youth,  nor  her  evident  dis- 
tress, softened  his  righteous  indignation,  but  he 
began  with  the  law  of  children  obeying  parents, 
and  in  a  long  discourse  proved  that  his  daughter 
had  wronged  and  rebelled  against  him,  Deacon 
Hobbs,  had  despised  the  covenanted  mercies,  and 
was  without  doubt  a  child  of  wrath,  and  would 


The   Old  and  the  New  in  Strife.          223 

descend  to  the  pit.  It  might  have  been  all  true, 
but  it  was  not  exactly  the  way  to  save  his 
daughter. 

Furthermore,  this  morning  his  eloquence  was  all 
in  vain.  Her  heart  closed  up  under  his  words,  as 
though  they  had  been  blows,  and  there  only  re- 
mained her  old  darkness  and  rigidity  of  nature. 
She  did  not  even  interrupt  his  discourse,  and  for 
some  time  after  he  stopped  she  made  no  reply. 

"  What  have  you  to  answer,  young  woman  ;  or 
have  you  nothing  to  answer?  "  he  said. 

"  Father,  I  wish  to  be  good  and  a  Christian ;  but 
I  can't  be  in  the  way  you  wish.  The  meetings 
have  done  me  no  good,  and  only  make  me  feel 
worse  and  more  rebellious.  My  heart  is  very 
hard,  I  know,  and  it  grows  harder  every  day,  and 
I  expect  to  be  damned;  but  if  I  am,  I  can't  help 
it.  I  have  prayed  to  be  better  ;  but  I  can't  feel  as 
other  people  say  they  do,  and  I  am  very  miserable." 

The  Deacon  insisted  that  she  should  go  home. 
Then  with  a  half-delirious  energy,  and  as  if  an  old 
wound  very  near  her  heart  had  been  cruelly  struck 
somehow,  rising  up  before  him  she  told  him  that 
come  what  might,  whether  lost  or  saved,  as  she 
was  miserable  and  in  despair,  to  that  home  she 
could  not  and  would  not  go. 

The  Deacon  stood  aghast  at  her  wickedness ; 
and  Miss  Mary,  anxious  for  smaller  matters  than 
the  Deacon  handled,  feared  hysterics. 


224          The   Old  and  the  New  in  Strife. 

"  Your  child  is  very  poorly,"  she  said,  "  and 
should  be  kept  quiet,  and  all  this  injures  her.  I 
think  if  you  will  leave  your  daughter  to  recover 
from  her  distress,  she  will  then  be  ready  to  do  all 
she  should.  But  really,  as  she  is  now,  an  interview 
like  this  is  dangerous.  I  wish  you  would  leave 
her  to  me."  The  Deacon  could  in  nowise  under- 
stand the  matter,  but  he  obeyed  Miss  Mary  so  far 
as  to  follow  her  out  of  the  room,  where  very  ener- 
getically she  expressed  her  opinion  that  here  was 
a  poor,  distressed,  excited  child,  whom  everybody 
but  herself  should  let  alone  ;  and  that  it  would  be 
murder  in  anybody  to  talk  religion  to  her  in  her 
present  state;  and  she  insisted  that  everybody, 
except  herself  and  the  doctor,  should  let  her 
patient  be  quiet.  "She  wants  rest  and  a  little 
common  sense  more  than  anything  else  in  the 
world  just  now." 

As  Miss  Mary  was  not  one  of  his  wives,  nor 
ever  likely  to  be,  the  Deacon  made  no  oration  in 
answer  to  her  emphasis,  but  put  on  his  hat  and 
went  off.  He  was  always  suspicious  of  his  neigh- 
bors :  here,  he  thought,  was  a  conspiracy  to  make 
his  daughter  an  Episcopalian.  Full  of  this  ingen- 
ious discovery  he  made  haste  to  the  rectory,  and 
with  a  very  steady  tramp  of  his  cowhide  boots 
upon  the  stairs,  presented  himself,  with  no  great 
ceremony,  to  the  rector  preparing  his  Sunday's 
sermon. 


The   Old  and  the  New  in  Strife.          225 

"  When  did  you  see  my  daughter,  sir  ?  " 

"  Yesterday  morning." 

"  And  haven't  you  seen  her  since  ?  " 

"No." 

"  I  am  not  accustomed,  Mr.  Ardenne,  to  accuse 
people  without  proof,  but  it  has  occurred  strongly 
to  my  mind,  since  our  last  meeting,  that  you  were 
trying  to  make  my  daughter  an  Episcopalian  in 
spite  of  my  wishes." 

Mr.  Ardenne's  face  flushed  a  little. 

"  We  are  not  used  to  do  things  in  an  underhand 
way,  nor  to  teach  children  to  disobey  their  parents. 
But  we  are  ready  to  show  people  how  to  be  Chris- 
tians, and  we  would  be  glad,  if  not  only  your 
daughter,  but  all  were  Church  folk.  I  have  hardly 
more  than  seen  her,  and  certainly  shall  not  under- 
take to  steal  her  away  from  your  communion, 
though,  as  she  has  actually  run  away  from  it,  I 
conclude  she  has  no  great  taste  for  it." 

"  I  don't  wish  to  make  you  mad,  parson,  but  I 
have  always  entertained  a  great  prejudice  against 
your  persuasion." 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  '  my  persuasion,'  as 
you  call  it  ?  " 

"  It's  as  bad  as  the  Roman  Catholics,  and  I  don't 
see  much  difference  between  you.  I  expect  you 
will  all  be  Papists  one  of  these  days." 

"  You  have  mixed  two  or  three  distinct  matters 
together  in  what  you  have  just  said,  and  I  will 


226          The   Old  and  the  New  in  Strife. 

now  divide  them,  and  answer  you.  In  the  first 
place,  what  do  you  mean  by  "as  bad  as  Roman 
Catholics  "  ?  Do  you  mean  that  Roman  Catholics 
have  nothing  good  about  them,  and  Protestants 
have  all  good?  Do  you  mean  that  Roman  Cath- 
olics hold  no  true  doctrines,  and  Protestants  hold 
them  all  ?  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  Roman  Cath- 
olics have  no  piety,  and  all  Protestants  are  holy  ? 
For  a  sensible  or  charitable  Christian  it  would  be 
a  very  delicate  matter  to  say  all  that.  It  is  the 
fashion  of  many  folks  to  lump  the  Roman  Catholic 
Church  together,  and  call  it  all  rottenness  and  bad. 
This  is  not  a  wise  way  to  do,  because  abuse  always 
creates  sympathy  for  the  abused,  and  throws  fair- 
minded  men  to  the  wrong  side  sometimes.  A 
dog,  maliciously  hunted,  finds  friends ;  and  there 
is  no  use  calling  the  Roman  Church  all  evil,  if  it 
be  partly  good.  That  Church  believes  in  the  Holy 
Trinity,  for  instance,  as  Protestants  do ;  but  they 
believe  in  a  great  many  other  doctrines  that  we  do 
not.  We  discriminate  between  their  truth  and 
error.  And  that  is  the  reason  why  we,  whom  you 
think  as  bad  as  Roman  Catholics,  are  the  very 
last  people  to  become  such.  The  man  who  knows 
best  his  neighbor's  landmarks  is  least  likely  to 
trespass  on  his  neighbor's  lands. 

"  Protestants  often  go  to  Rome  in  a  reaction 
from  their  own  injustice  in  thinking  her  all  evil, 
and  end  by  thinking  her  all  good.  But  they  err 


The    Old  and  the  New  in  Strife.          227 

both  first  and  last.  We  shall  none  of  us  triumph  by 
calling  her  heathen,  but  by  surpassing  her  as  Chris- 
tian. Now  we  are  not  only  not  Romanizers,  but 
in  the  long  run  we  expect  to  be  the  bulwark  of 
Protestantism  against  Rome  by  furnishing  Chris- 
tendom what  is  good  in  Rome  minus  the  evil. 
We  think  we  hold  a  faith  older  than  Rome,  and 
purer." 

"But  your  rites  and  ceremonies  are  certainly 
Romish,"  said  the  Deacon.  "  All  these  crosses  you 
make,  and  all  this  about  Lent  and  Easter,  sounds 
like  '  the  Scarlet  Woman.'  " 

"  As  to  Lent  and  Easter,  and  all  other  fasts  and 
feasts,  we  keep  them  because  Christ's  Church  com- 
mands us,  just  as  she  commands  us  to  keep  Sun- 
day;  and  if  you  keep  Sunday  because  it  is  Chris- 
tian tradition,  you  should  keep  the  other  holy  days 
for  the  same  reason. 

"  Again,  you  cannot  object  to  all  rites  and  cere- 
monies, because  you  have  your  own,  but  only  to 
our  rites  and  ceremonies. 

"  You  say  some  things  we  do,  look  Roman. 

"Shall  I  do  nothing  that  a  Roman  Catholic 
does?  Then  I  must  cease  to  breathe.  He  says 
the  Apostle's  creed.  Shall  I  not  say  it?  He  sings 
the  Te  Deum.  Shall  I  not  sing  it?  The  question 
for  you  and  me  is  not  what  Rome  holds,  but  what 
the  Catholic  Church  holds." 

"  But  what  do  you  think  of  a  religion  that  is 


228          The   Old  and  the  New  in  Strife. 

nothing  but  rites  and  ceremonies?"  said  the 
Deacon. 

"  If  you  mean  to  imply  by  that  that  the  religion 
of  our  Church  consists  of  rite  and  ceremony,  I 
can  only  say  that  it  is  a  very  harsh  judgment  in  a 
matter  where  neither  you  or  any  other  man  has  a 
right  to  judge ;  and  besides  that,  it  is  not  correct. 
If  in  many  rites  and  ceremonies  there  is  much 
worship,  well ;  if  little,  ill ;  and  if  with  no  rite  and 
ceremony  there  be  no  worship,  then  still  worse. 
Any  rite  which  aids  men  to  adore  God  is  a  good 
rite ;  and  any  rite  which  hinders  men  from  ador- 
ing God  is  a  bad  rite.  You  complain  of  us  that 
we  have  too  many  rites.  Suppose  we  should  com- 
plain of  you  that  you  have  too  few?  God's  wor- 
ship may  be  hindered  by  too  little  ceremony,  as 
well  as  by  too  much.  We  make  no  attack  on  you 
for  what  we  might  think  a  bald  service.  Where 
is  your  right  to  accuse  our  more  elaborate  wor- 
ship?" 

"But  do  you  believe  in  a  vital,  godly,  experi- 
mental piety?  "  asked  the  Deacon. 

"  Do  I,  a  Christian  minister,  believe  in  being  a 
Christian  ?  for  that  is  what  your  question  means. 
I  answer,  Certainly.  A  true  Christian  is  a  man 
who  worships  God  both  in  his  prayers  and  in  his 
deeds.  The  whole  aim  and  office  of  the  Church  is 
to  make  her  children,  not  delirious,  nor  fanatical, 
but  quiet,  pious  Christians." 


The   Old  and  the  New  in  Strife.          229 

"But  do  not  some  of  you,"  asked  the  Deacon, 
"preach  much  more  about  the  Church  than  about 
the  Lord  Jesus  Christ  ?  " 

"That  is  another  matter,"  replied  the  minister, 
"  which  requires  a  plain  answer.  We  say  that  there 
can  be  no  Church  without  the  C»oss,  and  that  there 
can  be  no  Cross  without  the  Church.  The  Church 
is  the  conduit  of  the  Cross  to  man.  In  this  world 
every  life  must  have  its  own  body,  and  the  Church 
is  the  body  that  contains  and  restrains  that  super- 
natural life  which  Christianity  is." 

All  this  was  news  to  Deacon  Hobbs.  He  could 
conceive  of  no  other  religion  except  his  own ; 
and  of  his  own,  no  mortal  had  ever  conceived 
except  himself.  To  argue  to  a  man  like  him  was 
to  address  a  man  who  had  no  ears,  and  the  rector's 
argument  left  him  as  it  found  him,  Deacon  Hobbs. 
Yet  he  had  a  faint  sensation  floating  about  in  his 
ungainly  nature  that  here  was  a  man  who  at  least 
thought  himself  right ;  and  he  had  been  so  far 
conciliated  by  Mr.  Ardenrie's  words  as  to  abstain 
from  any  further  severely  godly  remarks. 

"  Now  then,  sir,"  said  the  rector,  "  I  wish  to 
speak  to  you  about  your  daughter.  You  see  in 
what  state  she  is.  I  have  no  intent  to  meddle 
with  her  against  your  wishes  ;  and  I  have  not  done 
so.  She  is  at  my  parishioner's  house.  I  shall 
see  her  there.  Have  you  any  objection  to  my 


230  The   Old  and  the  New  in  Strife. 

attempting  to  make,  by  God's  grace,  a  Christian 
of  her?" 

"  My  daughter,"  said  Deacon  Hobbs,  "  is  a  head- 
strong and  rebellious  child.  You  may  say  what 
you  see  fit  to  her.  I  have  given  her  up." 

And  so  the  Deacon  took  his  leave. 


CHAPTER     XXI. 

A   HOME  FOR   A   HEART. 

MR.  ARDENNE  did  not  see  that  day  the  invalid 
at  Miss  Kendrick's,  for  that  lady  kept  good  watch 
over  her  patient  and  would  let  no  one  see  her. 
But  the  next  day,  when  he  came,  Miss  Mary 
admitted  him  with  a  smile.  "  Our  patient  is  better 
now,  and  you  may  see  her."  Prudence  Hobbs, 
under  her  gentle  handling,  had  become  herself 
again,  so  far  as  to  be  very  quiet,  and  only  an  ill- 
defined  sense  of  a  great  peril  overhanging  her 
remained.  Her  nurss  had  not  spoken  to  her 
directly  about  religious  matters,  but  in  diverse 
ways,  and  especially  in  the  daily  prayers,  she  had 
impressed  her  with  a  sense  that  religion  was 
meant  to  be  something  most  gentle  and  full  of 
love.  The  rector  went  to  her,  as  he  came  in, 
very  gently,  and  said  in  his  fatherly  way,  "  How 
is  the  sick  child  to-day  ?  Let  me  see,  I  am  half  a 
doctor.  Yes,  there  is  no  fever,  and  the  pulse  is 
quiet.  Miss  Mary,  your  patient  does  you  great 
credit." 

"  Yes,  she  is  quite  herself  again,  only  I  fancy 
her  mind  is  troubled  about  some  things  which  you 


232  A  Home  for  a  Heart. 

may  be  able  to  explain  to  her.  She  wishes  to  be 
a  Christian,  and  does  not  know  how,  and  she  has 
an  idea  that  God  will  not  have  any  mercy  on  her, 
He  is  so  just  and  awful  in  His  nature." 

"It  is  a  very  singular  view  to  take,  though 
some  hold  it,"  said  the  minister.  "  This  poor  child 
here  would  think  it  very  strange  if  I  should  tell 
her  that  fire  would  not  burn  ;  and  yet,  just  as  it  is 
the  quality  of  fire  to  have  heat,  so  it  is  the  very 
quality  of  God  to  have  mercy.  If  a  man  or 
angel  could  take  away  His  mercy,  he  would  de- 
stroy God.  And  His  mercy  is  so  strong  that  men 
in  this  world  never  outweary  it.  He  will  have 
mercy  on  every  child  of  His  who  will  accept  it, 
and  only  they  who  are  blind  to  it  or  refuse  it  ever 
lack  it.  All  God's  names  which  He  gives  him- 
self are  merciful  names.  He  is  our  Father,  Christ 
is  our  brother,  the  Church  is  our  mother,  the 
Holy  Ghost  is  comforter.  It  is  true,  as  they  tell 
you,  that  His  law  is  vast,  immutable,  unyielding. 
This  is  right,  since  God's  law,  could  it  be  change- 
able, would  not  be  God's  law  at  all,  and  no  viola- 
tion of  it,  unrepented,  can  ever  pass  unpunished. 
By  that  law,  which  we  all  break,  we  are  all 
sinners,  and  sinners  too  of  that  order  that  by 
ourselves  we  cannot  pay  it  what  we  owe  it,  and 
therefore  by  ourselves  must  perish.  But  that  is 
only  one  half,  and  the  lower  half  of  the  truth. 
God  has  not  left  us  to  wrestle  with  His  law  and 


A  Home  for  a  Heart.  233 

be  conquered  by  it,  for  that  would  be  to  leave  us 
to  fight  our  fight  in  such  a  way  as  to  be  surely 
conquered.  He  has  provided  a  way  for  our  escape 
and  victory  so  that  we  may  be  saved  forever. 
And  that  way  is  Jesus  Christ.  Now  Jesus  Christ 
upon  His  cross  made  an  atonement  for  the  sins  of 
the  whole  world,  so  that  whoever  thereafter  should 
plead  His  atonement  for  his  own  sins  should  have 
his  sins  forgiven.  And  therefore  all  revelation,  or 
the  showing  of  God  to  men,  is  a  showing  forth  of 
'God's  love  and  mercy.  For  all  revelation  is  to 
save  men,  and  our  blessed  Lord's  coining  on  earth, 
and  even  the  way  he  came,  as  a  child,  and  all  his 
actions  on  earth,  show  chiefly  God's  affection  for  us. 
Nay,  we  are  taught  that  every  hour  the  blessed 
Trinity,  throned  in  Heaven  and  yet  near  our 
hearts,  love  us  with  a  love  passing  the  love  of 
woman, —  not  the  love  of  mothers  for  their  chil- 
dren, but  the  vast,  boundless,  ageless  love  of  the 
Divinity.  Therefore  Christianity,  above  all  other 
religions,  is  a  religion  of  love,  and  the  Church, 
through  whom  true  religion  is  taught  men,  is  full 
of  gentleness  in  all  her  words  and  offices.  In  her 
purest  ages  she  has  never  driven  men  to  God  with 
the  whip  of  fear,  but  she  has  drawn  men  to  Him 
with  the  gossamer,  but  unbreaking,  bonds  of 
love.  It  is  wrong,  therefore,  to  think  of  God 
except  as  one  ever  ready  to  receive  and  save  all 
His  children.  It  is  not  difficult  to  begin  to  be  a 
Christian." 


234  A  Home  for  a  Heart. 

"But  how?"  asked  the  young  girl. 

"  Have  you  ever  been  baptized  ?  " 

"  No,  mother  wished  it,  but  father  wanted  me, 
he  said,  to  wait  until  I  had  grown  up  and  then 
decide  for  myself." 

"First  of  all,  it  is  necessary  that  you  be  bap- 
tized. Baptism  is  the  door  by  which  one  enters 
into  the  Ark  of  Safety,  the  Church.  But  as  you 
are  grown  before  you  are  baptized,  it  is  necessary 
for  you  to  soberly  choose  to  be  so.  It  has  no 
mystery  about  it,  when  you  solemnly  decide  to 
endeavor  to  live  in  obedience  to  God,  though  the 
ways  in  which  He  helps  us  to  keep  our  vows  are 
indeed  mysterious,  as  all  His  ways  are.  Are  you 
willing  to  abstain  from  doing  what  He  forbids,  and 
willing  to  believe  and  do  what  He  commands  ?  " 

"lam." 

"  Well,  then,  if  you  are,  and  understand  what 
you  say,  you  are  ready  to  be  baptized,  as  I  will 
show  you."  And  opening  his  Prayer-Book  at  the 
Sacrament  of  "  Baptism  of  those  of  Riper  Years," 
he  showed  her  how  the  four  questions  to  which 
every  baptized  person  must  give  assent  mean 
merely  this.  He  also  explained  to  her  at  length 
how  the  Church,  demanding  only  a  solemn  conse- 
cration of  a  soul  to  God,  nurtures  it  by  definite 
methods  through  this  world  to  the  next,  in  the 
name  and  fear  of  Jesus  Christ,  and  how  what 
men  call  religion,  since  it  deals  with  God,  is  full  on 


A  Home  for  a  Heart.  235 

that  side  of  mysteries,  but  on  our  human  side  is 
very  plain  and  simple.  In  conclusion  he  said,  "  I 
never  wish  to  tell  you  or  any  other  young  person 
that  to  be  a  Christian  is  an  easy  thing,  for  it  is  not 
an  easy  thing  either  to  live  well  or  ill,  and  the 
Christian  life  is  a  struggle  against  sin  towards 
God ;  but  what  I  wish  you  to  understand  is  this, 
that  the  way  to  be  a  Christian  is  very  plain.  It 
is  to  submit  your  soul  to  obey  God  and  to  follow 
our  blessed  Lord.  They  whom  you  obey  and 
follow  will  take  care  of  the  rest  as  they  have 
promised." 

Prudence  Hobbs  made  no  further  reply.  Then 
they  had  prayers  together.  "I  leave  you,"  he  said 
"  to  the  good  care  of  our  Heavenly  Father.  He 
will  hear  your  prayers  and  give  you  His  grace." 

When  the  minister  had  gone  away,  Prudence 
Hobbs  lay  with  her  hands  over  her  face  for  some 
time  without  speaking.  Then  she  said  to  Miss 
Mary,  who  sat  silently  beside  her,  waiting, 

"  I  wish  to  be  baptized  next  Sunday." 


CHAPTER    XXII. 

FLOWERS   AGAIN. 

THE  accident  of  a  broken  arm  had  not  kept 
Edward  Vaughn  from  the  Seatons'.  In  fact,  he 
went  there  about  as  regularly  as  he  ate  his  dinner. 
He  went  there  both  because  it  suited  his  mood 
and  it  was  made  pleasant  for  him  to  go.  The 
gossips  said  it  was  a  match.  What  did  they 
know  ?  What  do  they  ever  know  ?  How  to  gather 
stray  sticks  out  of  the  gutters,  maybe,  and  kindle 
a  fire  with  their  tongues  therein,  that  not  all  the 
water  of  two  rivers  could  put  out.  The  course  of 
affairs,  so  far  as  Isabel  Seaton  touched  her  hand 
to  them,  moved  on  in  a  very  placid  manner.  She 
was  a  girl  to  act  up  to  the  level  of  her  opportunity 
with  a  man  she  fancied,  and  from  her  first  waltz 
with  him  she  was  not  indifferent  to  Edward 
Vaughn.  When,  therefore,  he  came  to  see  her 
quite  like  a  suitor,  it  pleased  her  to  treat  him  quite 
as  her  lover.  True,  he  was  odd,  and  sometimes 
unmanageable  by  the  hands  of  Madame  Propriety, 
and  his  manners  were  occasionally  stormy,  but  so 
far,  since  his  mishap,  he  had  been  measurably 
quiet  at  his  visits,  and  tractable  to  Miss  Belle's 


Flowers  Again.  237 

tutelage.  It  pleased  that  lady,  therefore,  quite 
waiving  ceremony,  when  Mr.  Vaughn  came,  to 
help  him  off  with  his  coat  in  the  hall,  next  to 
show  him  to  the  easiest  chair  in  the  house,  which 
she  had  set  for  him  in  the  recess  of  the  front  bow 
window,  which  looked  across  the  rivers ;  then  she 
brought  him  a  taper  with  which  to  light  his  cigar, 
and  when  she  had  seen  his  lordship  comfortable, 
sat  down  herself  to  entertain  her  guest  with  that 
bright,  gossipy,  ever-endless  chit-chat  about  noth- 
ings which  so  many  very  clever  people  find  so 
charming.  There  never  was  a  Seaton  woman  who 
was  not  clever;  and  Miss  Belle,  that  bright, 
healthy,  vivacious  blonde,  with  those  round  blue 
eyes  so  full  of  change  and  meanings,  might  have 
moved  a  greater  Stoic  than  Edward  Vaughn  to 
admiration.  That  gentleman  showed  his  gratitude 
in  diverse  ways :  sometimes  in  the  pleasant  fashion 
of  soft  words  that  had  no  dispute  in  them,  and  then 
again  in  a  certain  bearishness  which  trampled  down 
Miss  Belle's  amenities  under  its  ungracious  feet, 
until  that  lady  was  next  to  anger,  or  in  despair. 
This  was  only  his  amiable  way  of  showing  that 
sometimes  he  liked  to  be  petted  for  an  invalid, 
and  sometimes  not.  Upon  the  whole,  however,  he 
was  behaving  after  the  lover  fashion. 

Was  he  in  love  with  Isabel  Seaton?  We  will 
look  deeper  than  ever  she  did  into  his  heart  and 
answer,  for  our  satisfaction,  "No."  Edward 


238  Floivers  Again. 

Vaughn  was  a  man  made  to  love  a  woman  with 
that  strong,  unswerving,  silent  heart-tide  of  affec- 
tion so  dear  to  women,  and  which  is  to  them  health, 
strength,  riches,  when  all  else  has  gone.  For 
Edward  Vaughn  began  life  with  a  man's  heart  in 
him,  and  with  all  that  faith  and  truth  which  belong 
to  good  men,  and  as  such  had  honored  all  women 
in  a  silent,  gentle  homage  that  bespeaks  a  princely 
nature ;  but  his  faith  in  women  had  withered  quite 
away,  and  he  never  loved  because  he  never  trusted ; 
and  what  we  do  not  trust  neither  do  we  respect. 
He  was  no  lover  except  in  form.  For  love  is 
human  worship  to  a  human  creature.  He  knelt 
before  a  shrine  whose  divinity  he  despised.  Yet, 
to  save  him  from  contempt,  we  say  again  that  his 
was  a  nature  to  love  a  woman  tenderly.  It  is  a 
fashion  to  laugh  at  sentiment,  and  in  these  prac- 
tical days  of  Mammon  to  weigh  lightly  as  chaff 
those  imponderable,  filmy  intangibilities  we  call 
the  affections  as  between  man  and  woman.  But 
the  man  who  cannot  love  as  a  man  ought  is  not  a 
man  at  all,  and  a  man's  love  for  woman,  before  the 
angels,  is,  next  to  his  love  for  God,  the  one  pure, 
musical  strain  amid  the  clamor  of  the  iron  wheels 
that  grind  life  down  from  its  mark.  The  age  of 
chivalry  has  passed,  and  a  better  age,  they  say, 
begins  in  which  woman  is  to  be  our  equal.  But 
she  must  be  either  queen  or  slave  to  us ;  there  is 
no  place  for  equality  between  us.  When  we  call 


Floivers  Again.  239 

her  our  equal  we  have  already  degraded  her  from 
her  throne  to  our  level.  In  woman  are  those 
strains  of  a  pure  being  before  which  seraphs  bow 
and  angels  worship,  and  by  which  time  and  eternity 
are  governed.  We  call  our  blessed  Lord  a  perfect 
man,  and  so  he  was ;  but  this  Son  of  Mary  Virgin 
—  this  kingdom  of  His  to  which  all  creatures  must 
subject  themselves  —  have  in  them  those  dominant 
qualities  which  find  their  human  expression  best 
in  woman.  The  Church,  the  faith,  the  spiritual 
life,  are  womanly.  The  seraphs,  angels  of  love, 
are  nearer  God,  they  say,  than  the  cherubs,  angels 
of  knowing ;  and  God  himself  is  Love.  Heaven 
will  not  be  so  much  perfect  knowledge  as  perfect 
love.  And  as  all  pure  things  are  born  of  love  and 
wear  the  maternal  features,  tell  us,  is  it  man  or  wo- 
man in  this  world  who  is  likest  God  in  that  ?  No ; 
the  age  of  chivalry  has  gone ;  but  if  in  this  world 
a  great,  deep-reaching  thought  ever  moved  men  to 
a  wise  aim,  it  was  when  devotion  to  the  idea  of 
womanhood  led  the  knight  of  old  to  wrestle, 
conquer  self  and  wrong  for  woman,  and  through 
his  love  for  her,  in  the  fanaticism  of  his  devotion, 
to  love  all  pure  and  holy  things  in  God.  Edward 
Vaughn  was  no  knight-errant.  His  heart  by  con- 
tact with  the  world  had  become  encased  in  stone. 
But  under  the  stone  were  still  waters  of  life  in 
prison.  It  was  not  in  Isabel  Seaton's  scope  to 
smite  the  rock  till  the  waters  should  gush  forth. 


240  Flowers  Again. 

At  the  Seatons'  it  was  comfortable  and  lively, 
and  Miss  Belle  was  certainly  piquant.  And  as 
a  taste  for  playing  with  edge-tools  is  common  to 
many  men,  he  took  his  turn  at  the  pastime  and 
was  not  afraid  of  his  fingers.  The  Heidelberg 
students  slash  away  at  each  other  with  swords  for 
the  excitement  of  it,  and  Isabel  Seaton  was  his 
excitement  in  an  else  rather  drowsy  town.  One 
morning  at  the  Seatons'  was  so  much  like  all  the 
others  that  we  may  as  well  describe  it. 

"  So  you  have  brought  me  a  bouquet  again  to- 
day ?  How  kind  it  is  of  you." 

"Yes,  Miss  Belle.  For  a  one-armed  man  my 
hands  are  usually  full  in  this  household."  , 

"Full  of  nothing  worse  than  flowers,  I  trust." 

"Yes,  full  of  you.  I  am  always  on  the  lookout 
for  some  sharp  speech  of  yours,  to  see  that  you 
don't  get  the  best  of  me.  I  think  when  you  are 
forty  you  will  beat  the  town  at  words." 

"Now,  that  is  really  unkind  of  you,  Sir  Orsin, 
to  make  me  out  such  a  scold,  and  when,  too,  I  have 
just  helped  you  off  with  your  cloak  so  nicely ; 
and  there  is  the  holder  for  the  cigar  ashes  ready 
for  you  by  your  chair,  you  see.  Is  that  your  grati- 
tude?" 

Then  Edward  Vaughn  takes  a  survey  of  the 
arrangements  for  his  comfort,  and  confesses  that 
of  all  sinners  he  is  the  greatest  against  her  lady- 
ship. 


Flowers  Again.  241 

"  Are  you  going  to  be  quiet  and  well  behaved 
this  morning?  " 

"  Quite  so,  but  you  are  letting  my  flowers  wi- 
ther on  the  stand  yonder."  So  the  flowers  are  put 
in  water  and  set  in  a  vase  upon  the  piano.  When 
he  has  seen  that  done  he  says,  "  Come,  now,  and 
talk  to  me,  while  I  smoke  in  the  window  yonder." 
So  he  smokes  his  cigar  with  Isabel  Seaton  near 
him,  and  they  two  talk.  What?  To  report  a  con- 
versation is  like  grasping  at  the  sunshine.  No  man 
can  do  it.  Edward  Vaughn  was  a  good  talker  and 
her  elder,  and  she  gave  him  that  subtle  sympathy 
of  mind  which  sometimes  led  him  to  talk  his  best ; 
and  so  it  was  that  under  the  cigar  smoke  in  his 
easy  chair  there  were  many  curious  things  said 
which  touched  upon  the  mysterious  things  of  life  ; 
and  he,  who  had  thought  down  into  many  questions, 
could  say  many  striking  words  that  instructed  as 
well  as  conquered  the  mental  respect  of  the  wo- 
man beside  him.  Yet  he  seemed  never  quite  in 
earnest  about  anything,  but  in  a  showman's  spirit 
brought  out  his  wares  for  your  inspection,  not 
anxious  for  you  to  buy,  nor  caring  to  defend  them, 
provided  his  pride  of  opinion  was  not  assailed  too 
sharply,  and  then  he  would  fight  roughly,  not  for 
his  truth,  but  for  his  way.  Earnestness  comes  from 
love  of  something,  and  what  did  he  love?  Per- 
haps himself,  certainly  not  truth  —  for  how  did 
he  know  that  there  was  any  truth  ?  He  was  an 


242  Flowers  Again. 

amateur  philosopher ;  and  an  amateur  anything  is 
never  very  much  in  earnest.  Yet,  philosopher  or 
what  not,  he  managed  to  make  himself  agreeable  to 
Miss  Seaton  in  a  very  complex  fashion  of  mingled 
tenderness  and  sarcasm,  and  while  he  often  per- 
plexed and  irritated,  he  was  certainly  subduing  her 
to  his  obedience. 

"There  sir,  you  are  actually  yawning."  This 
was  said  after  a  vivid  conversation  upon  the  point 
as  to  whether  one  grew  older  faster  in  winter  than 
in  summer,  Mr.  Vaughn  taking  the  summer  as 
the  more  questionable  side. 

"  Yes,  I  am  yawning  at  my  own  mental  empti- 
ness ;  not  at  you,  mon  ami.  I  tell  you  I  am  dis- 
gusted with  myself  for  the  half  way  in  which  I 
hold  all  my  opinions.  Opinions  are  nothing  to  me 
but  an  amusement,  and  I  am  forever  talking  to 
hear  what  absurdities  I  can  string  together.  Two 
fellows  in  a  bar-room  will  pummel  each  other  to 
prove  their  politics  true,  but  I  have  no  politics 
and  no  religion  to  fight  for." 

"  Oh,  you  Epicurean,  smoking  a  cigar:  Is  there 
nothing  you  would  fight  for?  " 

"  Yes,  my  dinner  —  or  you  !  " 

"You  put  your  dinner  first." 

"  Well,  then,  you  and  my  dinner  — that  is,  if  I 
were  hungry.  I  fought  for  you  up  the  river  with 
that  black  horse  of  yours,  though,  you  know.  But 


Flowers  Again.  243 

come  now,  a  little  music  puts  me  all  right.  Play 
me  something." 

"  What  shall  it  be  ?  " 

"  Something  from  "  Norma  "  —  "  Casta  Diva  "  or 
the  prayer.  I  am  always  in  the  mood  for  "  Norma." 
I  hear  in  "  Norma  "  the  rush  of  the  wind  across  the 
North  Sea  and  its  wailings  in  a  dark  midnight 
among  the  gnarled  Druid  oaks  under  which,  to- 
morrow, they  will  set  the  wicker  baskets  full  of 
victims,  while  the  sharp  knife  flashes  and  the  red 
fire  gleams  into  the  faces  of  bearded  priests. 
That  opera  contains  the  storminess  and,.blood 
hunger  of  ancient  Britons,  of  whom  I  am  a  degen- 
erate son." 

"  Bravo  !  That,  now,  is  sensible.  I  shall  sing 
"Casta  Diva"  for  you."  So  she  sat  down  at  the 
piano  to  sing.  Isabel  Seaton  played  indeed  ex- 
quisitely, and  her  fingers  upon  the  piano  keys  had 
the  movement  of  running  water,  so  graceful  was 
she ;  and  in  her  singing  she  was  exact  and 
cultured,  and  what  depended  on  the  knowing  she 
rendered  accurately ;  but  what  was  to  be  felt  she 
failed  in.  Yet  her  music  was  the  one  thing  in  her 
that  honestly  pleased  Edward  Vaughn,  if  it  did 
not  rouse  nor  elevate  him.  So  he  turned  the  music 
for  her  while  she  sang  from  "  Norma." 

"  What  a  singing  bird  you  are.  I  thank  you  for 
that.  That  was  well  done,  mon  ami."" 

"  What    a    mocking   bird   you    are,   mon  ami. 


244  Flowers  Again. 

Next  time  you  come,  if  you  are  well  behaved, 
I  will  have  some  new  music  for  you ;  some  of 
Mendelssohn's." 

Then  Edward  Vaughn  made  his  adieus ;  and 
after  he  had  gone  Miss  Belle  opened  the  windows 
to  let  out  the  smoke  from  her  mother's  lace  cur- 
tains, and  then  came  back  to  take  a  long  look  at 
the  flowers  upon  the  piano. 

She  had  culled  from  that  bouquet,  and  worn  all 
that  morning,  just  one  branch  of  mignonette  and 
a  rose-geranium  leaf  on  the  white  morning  dress. 
There  were  other  geraniums  in  plant  about  the 
house,  and  he  knew  it. 


CHAPTER    XXIII. 

MOTHER   AND   SON. 

JOHN  WALKER  had  become  Mr.  Edward 
Vaughn's  yachtman.  It  is  necessary  to  go  back 
a  little  in  this  story  to  relate  how  all  this  came 
about.  The  wharf  where  that  gentleman's  yacht 
lay  was  just  opposite  Mother  Walker's  cottage. 
The  next  morning  after  her  son  came  home,  when 
that  person  went  outdoors  for  an  airing,  to  his 
great  surprise  the  first  thing  he  saw  before  him  at 
the  river's  bank  was  a  mast ;  and  arguing  there- 
from that  where  there  is  a  mast  there  must  be  a 
boat,  with  a  sailor's  instinct  for  a  craft  afloat  he 
very  soon  shortened  the  distance  between  him  and 
the  wharf.  He  was  dressed  in  his  sailor  rig  of 
short  blue  jacket,  rich  in  buttons,  and  a  pair  of 
blue  cloth  trousers  that  required  a  deal  of  hitch- 
ing to  keep  them  in  place,  and  a  glazed  tarpaulin 
hat,  and  had  that  rolling  gait  which  all  sailors 
seem  to  have  caught  from  the  sea.  Then  he  took 
a  squint  at  the  craft  all  over,  with  his  eyes  half 
shut  in  the  nautical  fashion,  as  if  to  keep  too 
much  wind  out  when  it  blows  hard.  It  was  a 
small  but  neat  sloop,  perfect  in  all  its  appoint- 


246  Mother  and  Son. 

ments  and  of  a  peculiar  build  to  insure  speed,  and 
was  indeed  very  fast.  He  went  round  to  look  at 
the  bows.  When  he  had  taken  a  good  look  for- 
ward, he  grunted  out  his  satisfaction,  and  then 
said  to  himself,  "  That's  a  neat  one.  A  perfect 
little  lady,  to  be  sure.  She  sits  like  a  duck  on  the 
water,  and  she  looks  as  though  she  could  creep 
right  into  the  wind's  eye  like  the  Flying  Dutch- 
man. That's  the  tautest  little  craft  I  ever  seen 
afloat." 

"  So,  then,  you  like  my  yacht,"  said  a  voice 
behind  him. 

The  man  turned  round.  It  was  Edward  Vaughn 
in  his  sea  rig.  He  gave  a  pull  at  his  tarpaulin  for 
a  salute,  and  answered,  "  Yes,  Captain,  I  could 
cross  the  Atlantic  in  her.  She's  a  regular  sea-bird." 

"  You  are  a  sailor,  my  man  ?  " 

"  Ever  since  I  was  a  boy." 

"Do  you  think  you  could  sail  that  craft?" 

"  Try  me,  Captain." 

"  Well,  I'll  try  you.  Go  on  board  there.  We'll 
take  a  short  turn  down  the  river."  So  John 
Walker  went  on  board,  with  his  hand  on  the 
shrouds  and  a  swinging  jump  on  deck.  Then  he 
went  forward  to  the  forecastle,  if  the  few  feet 
before  the  one  mast  could  be  called  so,  gave  one 
last  hitch  to  his  breeches,  threw  his  tobacco  quid 
over  the  side,  and  then  took  another  general  sur- 
vey on  deck. 


Mother  and  /Son.  247 

"  Pardon,  Captain,  who's  sailed  this  craft  afore." 

"  I  have,  generally ;  but  Bill  Knox,  a  town  man, 
who  has  been  mackerel-fishing,  as  he  tells  me,  has 
taken  her  out  several  times  this  spring,  and  hasn't 
left  things  aboard  in  very  good  shape." 

"  No,  I  never  knowed  a  whaler  or  a  coaster  that 
ever  knowed  much  about  sailing  a  vessel.  Things 
are  left  about  on  deck  as  though  a  greenhorn  had 
been  on  board.  The  larboard  shrouds  need  taut- 
ening, you  see "  (with  another  squint  aloft), 
"and  that  mainsail's  fniied  as  though  a  marine  had 
done  it.  Before  we  h'ist  anchor,  just  let  me  put 
things  a  little  more  ship-shape,"  and  the  man  went 
to  work  coiling  away  ropes,  and  putting  things  in 
place  with  the  air  of  a  man  at  home.  Then  they 
hoisted  the  sails  and  the  anchor,  and  Edward 
Vaughn  said, 

"  Come  aft  here,  and  take  the  helm.  Your 
course  is  down  the  river  to  the  point  yonder." 

"Ay,  ay,  sir.  Is  it  plain  sailing  here,  and 
enough  water  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  water  enough  everywhere,  when  the 
centreboard  is  up."  So  they  sailed  down  the 
river  with  a  quartering  wind. 

"  Do  you  see  the  rock  on  that  point  below  us, 
my  man  ?  If  so,  show  me  how  close  you  can  lay 
the  Qui  Vive  to  it,  and  not  touch.  It's  bold 
water.  Do  you  understand?" 

"  Ay,    ay,   sir ; "   and   John    Walker,    with    no 


248  Mother  and  Son. 

more  words,  but  locking  straight  before  him,  put 
the  boat  on  to  the  rock  until  she  almost  grazed  it, 
and  yet  swept  on  past  it  clear. 

"  Very  well  done,  my  man.  You  can  manage  a 
boat,  I  see.  Now  put  her  about,  and  sail  back." 
So  they  sailed  back,  and  John  Walker  said,  by  way 
of  compliment,  "She's  like  a  horse  with  a  soft 
mouth,"  which  meant  that  she  steered  easily. 

"Now,  my  man,"  Edward  Vaughn  said,  when 
everything  was  made  fast  at  the  wharf,  "  I  want 
somebody  to  sail  my  yacht,  and  take  charge  of  her. 
I  live  up  in  the  house  yonder,  and  I  want  some- 
body I  can  trust.  You  are  a  sailor  evidently;  and 
though  I  expect  you  to  be  on  hand  night  or  day  if 
I  wish  it,  yet  it's  not  very  hard  work,  and  I'll  pay 
you  for  it  forty  dollars  a  month,  winter  and  sum- 
mer." 

•'  I  wouldn't  mind  doing  that,  Capt'n,  so  I  can 
be  with  the  old  woman,  and  look  after  her  a 
little." 

"I  ought  perhaps  to  have  first  inquired  who 
you  are,  but  your  face  is  an  honest  one.  Do  you 
belong  in  this  neighborhood?  "  Then  he  told  him 
his  story,  and  who  he  was,  and  Edward  Vaughn 
seemed  interested.  "  Very  well,"  he  said,  "  the 
boat's  in  your  care.  When  I  want  you,  I  will  send 
to  the  house  for  you." 

It  was  so  that  John  Walker  became  Edward 
Vaughn's  yachtman. 


Mother  and  Son.  249 

And  it  was  refreshing  to  see  how  happy  Mother 
Walker  and  her  son  grew  to  be  over  and  about 
the  care  of  that  yacht  and  of  one  another.  John 
had  brought  his  kit,  which  contained  itself  in  one 
monstrous  sailor's  chest  full  of  the  odds  and  ends 
of  a  sailor's  life,  into  one  of  Mother  Walker's 
chambers  next  the  stairway,  and  swung  his  ham- 
mock overhead.  Not  a  chair  in  his  room  would 
he  have,  nor  table,  but  his  chest  served  for  both ; 
and  when  at  night  he  stood  on  that  one  chest  to 
get  into  his  hammock,  the  action  had  a  sea  memory 
to  it,  as  though  he  was  clambering  into  an  upper 
berth.  In  the  mornings  he  washed  himself  in  a 
pewter  basin  outside  on  the  stairs,  and  then  threw 
the  water,  as  it  were,  over  the  ship's  side.  He 
would  have  holystoned  all  his  mother's  floors  had 
it  not  been  for  the  bits  of  rag  carpets  which 
graced  the  same  and  the  ignorance  of  the  old  lady, 
who  thought  "holystoning"  meant  something 
dreadful.  She  was  strengthened  in  that  opinion 
when  in  a  spirit  of  compromise  she  allowed  him  to 
perform  that  singular  office  upon  his  own  room, 
which  he  did  by  the  aid  of  two  of  the  smoothest 
stones  he  could  find  on  the  street,  and  a  couple  of 
pails  of  water.  And  never  had  there  been  such  a 
noise  in  her  house,  and  never  such  complaint  from 
the  people  below  stairs  that  the  water  soaking 
through  had  spoiled  their  plastering,  as  when 
Mother  Walker's  Johnny  was  found  of  her,  bare 


250  Mother  and  Son. 

footed  and  kneed,  scrubbing  his  chamber  floor,  as 
though  it  were  a  ship's  deck.  But  although  her  son 
made  as  much  of  a  ship  as  he  could  out  of  Mother 
Walker's  house,  he  was  the  very  best  of  sons. 
When  he  waited  on  her,  he  had  an  air  about  him 
as  though  he  thought  he  was  waiting  on  a  queen, 
so  gentle  was  he  ;  and  every  night  after  she  had 
said  prayers  for  both,  since  she  had  the  more  learn- 
ing it  would  have  done  one  good  to  see  the  silent 
way  in  which  he  kissed  his  mother  "good  night  " 
before  he  climbed  into  his  hammock.  And  as  for 
the  mother,  she  prayed  and  gave  thanks  in  her 
heart  all  day,  and  at  the  same  time  kept  her  hands 
busy  preparing  Johnny's  meals.  And  so  there  was 
much  peace  and  happiness  in  those  three  rooms  of 
Mother  Walker's  old  house. 

But  the  best  of  all  was  when  Johnny  took  his 
mother  down  to  the  yacht.  One  should  have  seen 
the  pair  as  they  went  across  the  greensward,  hand 
in  hand  to  the  wharf,  the  man  going  so  carefully, 
and  picking  out  the  driest  way  for  his  mother  in 
the  dew.  Especially  after  supper  one  should  have 
seen  the  good  mother  in  her  white  cap  and  checked 
shawl,  smoking  her  pipe  —  for  she  had  that  Eng- 
lish habit  of  her  class  —  sitting  upon  an  old  spar, 
and  chatting  with  Johnny  at  his  evening  work. 
What  wonderful  stories  he  told  her  of  the  sea ; 
and  how  nicely  he  instructed  her  as  to  how  one 
brings  his  ship  to  in  a  gale  of  wind,  and  what  the 


Mother  and  Son.  251 

rules  of  the  navy  are.  What  hairbreadth  escapes 
he  himself  had  had,  in  order  that  he  might  tell 
these  wonders  when  the  sun  was  going  down  to  a 
dear  old  woman  in  a  white  cap,  who  never  was  too 
tired  to  listen.  How  many  questions  she  asked, 
and  how  ignorant  she  was,  to  be  sure ;  but  Johnny 
had  any  quantity  of  patience,  and  was  bent  by 
sign,  word,  metaphor,  or  anything  in  human  speech 
or  pantomime  upon  making  his  mother  a  sailor. 
If  one  could  have  heard  the  minute  lessons  he 
gave  her  in  all  sorts  of  nautical  affairs,  one  would 
have  vowed  he  was  trying  to  prepare  his  mother  to 
pass  her  examination  as  a  midshipman,  so  eager 
was  he  to  have  her  know  it  all.  How  afraid  she 
was,  to  be  sure,  of  the  sea  and  of  everything  afloat? 
What  coaxing  it  cost  him  to  decoy  her  on  board 
the  yacht,  and  how  straight  he  stood  when  his 
mother  sat  down  for  the  first  time  by  the  tiller 
ropes,  and  he  informed  her  for  the  hundredth  time 
that  the  Qui  Vive  was  the  fastest  craft  of  her  size 
in  the  State  !  How  anxious  was  she  lest  the  planks 
should  start  and  the  yacht  carry  her  down  without 
warning,  though  the  craft  was  moored  to  the 
wharf,  and  had  only  two  feet  of  water  under  her 
keel.  And  then,  lastly,  when  the  pipe  was  smoked, 
and  the  work  all  done,  how  they  two  went  home 
in  the  evening,  mother  and  son  together.  How 
happy  they  were !  How  pure  the  great  strong 
love  with  which  mother  and  son  love  each  other ! 


252  Mother  and  Son. 

And  there  was  One  who  once  called  the  Hebrew 
maiden  Mary,  "mother."  In  the  words  husband 
and  wife  you  may  find  the  tenderness  of  our 
human  love  ;  in  the  words  "  mother  "  and  "  son  " 
its  strength. 


CHAPTER    XXIV. 

A   DINNER   OF   HERBS. 

A  HALF-DOZEN  gentlemen  were  waiting  dinner 
on  the  piazza  of  River  Nook.  Most  of  them  had 
come  up  from  the  city  the  night  before  for  a  yacht- 
ing excursion  to  which  Edward  Vaughn  had  in- 
vited them  for  to-morrow.  That  gentleman  now 
made  his  appearance  from  the  stables,  where  he 
had  been  arranging  for  a  drive  for  the  party  after 
dinner.  They  were  mostly  younger  than  their 
host. 

"  Well,  gentlemen,  how  have  you  taken  care  of 
yourselves  this  morning  ?  "  he  asked. 

"Right  well,  thank  you,"  said  several.  "We 
have  smoked  your  Havannahs  and  played  carom 
quite  to  our  hearts'  content." 

"  That's  right.  I  hope  you  are  all  as  hungry  as 
bears.  I  have  got  some  of  the  nicest  brook  trout 
for  dinner  that  you  ever  tasted  —  those  speckled 
fellows,  not  over-large,  and  fried  as  they  should 
be  in  corn  meal  crisp  and  brown,  fit  for  a  king ! " 

"  Bravo  !  "  shouted  the  company. 

"I  shall  give  you  Hock  with  them  to-day,  so 
that  fish  grown  in  our  streams  will  be  washed  in 


254  A  Dinner  of  Herbs. 

Rhine  water.  Besides,  I  caught  them  myself,  not 
with  a  silver  hook,  as  they  say  hereabouts,  but  by 
a  good  stout  tramp  Saturday,  up  the  river.  But 
where  is  Le  Clerke  ?  " 

There  was  a  shrug  from  several  pairs  of  shoul- 
ders, and  some  one  said  in  a  very  non-committal 
way,  "  Le  Clerke  has  gone  fishing,  I  fancy,  on  his 
own  hook,"  and  a  significant  smile  went  round. 

"I  don't  wish  to  pry  into  any  man's  business," 
said  Edward  Vaughn,  "  but  I  see  there's  something 
up  with  Le  Clerke,  and  what  it  is  I  can't  imagine. 
I  didn't  know  that  he  was  acquainted  with  any- 
body in  this  parish.  From  the  way  you  look  I 
imagine  there's  a  woman  in  the  case." 

"  The  fact  is,"  said  the  man  who  stood  next  him, 
"Le  Clerke  is  sweet  on  Isabel  Seaton,  who  I 
hear  is  spending  the  summer  here,  and  has  pro- 
bably gone  to  visit  her." 

"  Isabel  Seaton  !  Isabel  Seaton  !  What  do  you 
mean,  man  ?." 

"Mean  exactly  what  I  say.  It  was  reported 
last  winter  over  town  that  they  were  engaged,  but 
I  know  nothing  except  by  hearsay.  I  have  heard 
that  he  was  very  sweet  on  her." 

"  That's  so,"  said  several. 

"  By  heavens !  gentlemen,  the  devil  will  get 
his  share  of  men  and  women  before  he's  through 
with  this  world." 

"Who  ever  doubted  that?"  said  several  with  a 


A  Dinner  of  Herbs.  255 

laugh.  "But  what  has  that  to  do  with  Le 
Clerke's  calling  on  a  lady  ?  " 

"Plenty.  I  want  that  lady  for  myself,  and  I 
won't  have  Le  Clerke  meddling." 

"  Ah !  that  accounts  for  the  milk  in  that  cocoa- 
nut,"  and  the  company  fairly  roared. 

"  We'd  like  to  see  you  sweet  on  a  woman, 
Vaughn.  That  would  be  rich." 

"  But  don't  you  think  I  can  be  ?  —  perfect  nectar, 
running  water,  soft  as  a  summer's  morn,  or  a 
zephyr,  anything,  when  there  is  a  woman  at  stake? 
Laugh  now,  young  gentlemen.  I  paid  court  to 
these  goddesses  before  some  of  you  there  were  out 
of  arms,.and  I  make  a  very  sentimental  lover." 

"  Edward  Vaughn  in  love.  Capital."  And  they 
roared  at  the  joke. 

"Very  well,"  he  said,  "let  them  laugh  that 
win.  Look  out  for  your  sweethearts  when  I'm 
round.  I  am  bound  to  marry  somebody.  I've 
thought  strongly  of  the  seamstress  we  have  here 
occasionally.  Then  I  should  be  sure  to  have  my 
buttons  always  sewed  on.  Or  perhaps  I  can  pick 
up  one  of  these  fresh  country  girls  among  the 
hills,  who  blushes  all  over  when  you  look  at  her 
and  never  knows  what  to  do  with  her  hands  — 
in  which  case  I  could  always  count  on  fresh  but- 
ter and  perhaps  she  might  milk  the  cows  —  how 
charming!  That  is  to  say,  if  I  can't  cage  Isabel 
Seaton." 


256  A  Dinner  of  Herbs. 

"But  here  comes  Le  Clerke  and  his  terrier," 
said  several. 

While  he  is  coming  with  a  quick,  nervous  gait 
up  the  gravel  walk,  we  had  better  take  a  look  at 
him,  since  in  this  story  he  is  like  those  cheap 
actors  in  a  play  who  appear  upon  the  stage  only 
in  one  scene.  Sam  Le  Clerke  is  a  man  of  about 
twenty-five,  short  and  stout  built,  with  a  pale,  in- 
tellectual face  and  very  black  moustache  and  eyes 
to  it,  while  he  looks  the  man  of  the  world  he  is. 
He  has  a  gentleman's  reserve  of  manner,  and  is 
known  among  his  fellows  as  clever  in  whatever  he 
tries,  and  is  a  favorite.  Furthermore,  and  there 
is  nothing  remarkable  in  him. 

"  We  are  waiting  dinner  for  you,  my  boy,"  said 
one  of  the  group  as  he  came  up  to  the  stoop. 

"A  thousand  pardons,  gentlemen.  To  keep 
dinner  waiting  is  not  to  be  excused.  I  exceed- 
ingly regret  my  offence.  Business  detained  me." 

"Pleasant  business,  we  hope." 

"Very." 

"Excuse  me  a  moment,  till  I  get  a  little  of  this 
dust  off.  I  will  be  down  at  once,"  and  the  young 
man  passed  through  the  hall  door  to  his  chamber. 

"Sam  does  not  look  well  to-day,"  said  one. 

"No,  he  was  up  a  little  too  late  last  night  at 
carom,  and  is  smoking  hard." 

The  butler  came  out  on  the  stoop  and  whispered 
something  to  his  master.  "I  am  sorry  to  say, 


A  Dinner  of  Herbs.  257 

gentlemen,"  said  the  latter,  "  that  dinner  will  be 
late  twenty  minutes.  It  was  sharp  three  in  order 
to  go  riding,  and  it's  that  now.  In  the  country 
here,  to  get  a  punctual  dinner  is  a  miracle  that's 
not  seen  every  day.  If  any  of  you  are  starving, 
you'll  find  crackers  and  cheese  in  the  billiard 
room.  Excuse  me,  gentlemen,  a  moment."  So 
while  the  gentlemen  arranged  themselves  in  divers 
attitudes  of  resignation  waiting  their  dinner,  Ed- 
ward Vaughn  went  up  to  Sam  Le  Clerke's  room. 
He  found  that  young  man  hurriedly  dressing.  He 
went  at  his  work  in  his  own  blunt  way,  which  was 
perhaps  the  best.  "  I  wish  to  ask  you,  Le  Clerke, 
if  there  is  anything  between  you  and  Isabel 
Seaton  ?  " 

The  young  man  faced  him  with  a  steady  gaze 
and  then  said  coolly,  "  Till  to-day  that  lady  was 
engaged  to  be  my  wife." 

"  The  devil  she  was.     It  is  impossible." 

"  I  have  stated  to  you  the  fact." 

"  Any  man  who  knows  me,  knows  that  I  am  the 
last  man  alive  to  meddle  with  other  people's  affairs, 
but  I  have  my  reasons  for  being  curious  about  this 
matter,  which  I  will  presently  give  you.  I  mean 
no  harm.  I  swear  to  you  I  mean  to  be  your  friend. 
But  tell  me,  how  do  you  two  stand  ?  " 

"  Miss  Seaton  broke  her  engagement  with  me 
this  very  morning."  (This  was  said  in  the  same 
cool  way.)  "I  have  all  my  letters  back  again, 
and  she  will  have  hers  when  I  get  back  to  town." 


258  A  Dinner  of  Herbs. 

"  What  reasons  did  she  give  ?  " 

"  O,  she  had  a  mouthful  of  them :  she  was  too 
young ;  incompatibility  of  temper ;  that  she  was 
afraid  she  did  not  love  me  —  all  the  dear  little 
things  women  say  when  they  wish  to  break  their 
engagement." 

"And  you?" 

"  I  told  her  that  she  had  not  been  too  young  to 
plight  her  faith  to  a  man  who  honestly  loved  her, 
and  that  she  was  rather  late  in  her  discoveries, 
and  that  if  it  suited  her  it  certainly  suited  me, — 
anything,  you  know,  that  was  civil  to  the  woman 
and  not  like  a  puppy." 

"  But  what  do  you  think  of  her,  anyhow  ?  " 

"  Think  of  her  ?  I  don't  know  what  to  think  of 
her,  and  I  don't  care.  I  was  in  love  with  her,  and 
that's  enough  to  keep  my  mouth  shut.  I  don't 
think  I  know  much  about  her.  I  suppose  she  has 
the  way  of  women."  Edward  Vaughn,  when  he 
was  very  much  excited,  had  a  way  of  being  very 
quiet  outside  and  speaking  low.  Yet  his  face, 
when  after  a  long  silence  of  meditation  he  lifted 
it  up,  showed  lips  firm  set,  arid  a  smile  in  the  gray 
eyes  that  seemed  dangerous. 

"  So,  then,"  he  said  slowly,  "  this  is  it.  This  is 
Isabel  Seaton.  Humph !  I  might  have  known  as 
much. 

"  I  think  I  can  give  you  a  little  insight  into  this 
matter,  Le  Clerke,"  he  said,  "  and  I  will  be  frank 


A  Dinner  of  Herbs.  259 

with  you.  It  has  been  a  rule  of  my  life  never  to 
cross  another  man's  path  in  a  love  affair,  and  from 
that  conduct  I  have  never  knowingly  deviated. 
I  have  followed  that  rule,  simply  because  for  a 
gentleman  there  can  be  no  other.  Yet  I  fear  I 
have  crossed  your  track,  arid  this  is  the  way  of  it. 
Isabel  Seaton  lives,  as  you  know,  summers,  in  this 
town.  I  met  her  here.  She  put  herself  at  once 
in  a  position  towards  me,  as  one  perfectly  free  to 
receive  addresses.  In  my  way,  which  is  not  much 
of  a  way,  because  it  is  not  a  very  sincere  one,  I 
have  paid  mine  to  her  and  she  seems  to  have  ac- 
cepted them.  At  least  it  looks  so.  As  I  say,  if 
I  had  known  that  I  was  interfering  with  any 
human  being,  I  would  rather  have  had  my  hand 
cut  off  at  the  wrist  than  done  so,  because  I  meant 
nothing,  and  might  injure  somebody ;  and  a  man 
would  be  merely  a  coward  to  make  trouble  of  this 
sort  just  to  amuse  himself.  You  know  just  as  well 
as  I  do  what  to  think  of  a  woman  who  under  such 
circumstances  acts  as  Miss  Seaton  has.  But  that 
is  her  affair.  It  is  my  business  merely  to  tell  you 
this,  and  to  say  how  much  I  regret  having  unin- 
tentionally interfered  with  you." 

"  There's  not  much  harm  done,  anyhow,"  he 
answered.  "A  woman  who  can  conduct  herself 
in  that  fashion,  a  man  may  be  glad  to  be  rid  of. 
And  however  much  I  may  have  thought  of  Isabel 
Seaton,  what  you  tell  me  ought  to  satisfy  me  to 


260  A  Dinner  of  Herbs. 

let  her  alone,  with  thanks  for  my  riddance.  We 
men  are  but  indifferent  honest,  anyway,  but 
somehow  we  think  and  wish  women  to  be  angels  ; 
but  I  swear  to  God  "  (and  here  for  the  first  and 
last  time  during  the  interview  he  showed  a 
man's  passion),  "  if  I  loved  a  woman  better  than  I 
did  my  God,  if  she  played  me  false  I  should  des- 
pise her." 

"  That's  said  like  a  man,  my  dear  fellow.  And 
now  let  me  tell  you  something  which  you  don't 
know.  All  this  is  in  the  Seaton  blood.  I  know 
them  well.  I  meddled  with  one  of  their  women 
years  ago,  and  she  led  me  a  worse  chase  than  yours. 
I  thought  this  chit  might  be  honest;  but  she  is 
like  all  the  rest.  It  isn't  in  them  to  be  straightfor- 
ward in  their  love  affairs,  but  they  must  intrigue 
a  little — just  for  the  spice  of  the  thing.  There 
was  something  left  out  when  they  were  made  up, 
and  what  that  is  I  can't  exactly  say,  only  that  they 
are  not  to  be  trusted.  And  in  my  judgment  you 
are  well  rid  of  her." 

"  Perhaps  I  had  better  hand  you  over  my  letters 
as  my  successor  in  office.  They  are  sweet,  and 
with  a  change  in  the  subscription  might  answer 
you,"  Le  Clerke  said  with  a  bitter  smile,  as  he 
proceeded  to  unload  his  pockets  of  sundry  pack- 
ages of  letters. 

"  Ah  !  well,  yes.  I  tell  you  a  woman  like  that 
hasn't  got  any  heart.  Bah !  Men  are  bad  enough, 


A  Dinner  of  Herbs.  261 

but  a  woman  like  this  —  is  not  worth  talking 
about.  Burn  up  those  letters  in  a  smoky  fire  and 
cover  them  over  with  ashes  —  but  then,  the  ashes 
are  clean." 

"  Very  good." 

So  they  two  burnt  up  the  letters  in  the  grate. 

"  Now  then,  my  boy,  wash  your  hands  and  let's 
go  down  to  dinner." 

"  You  do  not  blame  ine  ? "  he  said  as  the  two 
went  down  the  hall  stairs. 

"  No." 

"  Well,  then,  give  us  your  hand  on  that." 

So  the  two  men  shook  hands.  "Do  you  intend 
to  cultivate  Miss  Seaton  ? "  Le  Clerke  asked. 

"  Cultivate  her  ?  You  shall  see."  And  the  grim 
smile,  mixed  tiger  and  satyr  look,  passed  over  the 
face  which  could  be  sometimes  handsome.  "  I 
shall  cultivate  her,  you  may  be  sure." 

Dinner  was  announced  just  as  they  came  down 
stairs.  It  was  the  habit  of  Edward  Vaughn  to 
give  good  dinners,  upon  a  principle  that  at  a 
dinner  table  civilization  on  its  material  side 
should  culminate ;  and  this  was  one  of  them.  It 
was  also  a  dinner  well  taken  ;  and  among  the  gay 
gentlemen  who  dined  together  that  day,  Sam  Le 
Clerke  and  Edward  Vaughn  were  the  gayest  of 
the  gay. 


CHAPTER    XXV. 

A   YACHTING   PARTY. 

"  How  shall  I  get  rid  of  your  yachting  party, 
Vaughn?"  said  Sam  Le  Clerke  to  that  gentleman, 
whom  he  found  very  early  the  next  morning 
alone  in  the  hall,  overlooking  some  fish-lines 
which  were  to  be  carried  down  to  the  boat  for 
the  day's  sport.  "  I  wish  to  avoid  meeting  my 
adorable  lady,  Miss  Seaton,  and  I  should  like  to 
do  it  without  setting  the  fellows  talking." 

Edward  Vaughn  laid  down  the  lines  and  took 
a  look  at  the  speaker.  "  Yes,  I  see.  How  shall  it 
be  ?  You  haven't  broken  an  arm  or  a  leg,  have 
you?" 

"No,  but  I  have  a  furious  headache  ! " 

"Well,  that  will  do.  No  man  should  venture 
out  in  the  sun  with  a  sick  headache,  especially 
when  he  don't  want  to  go.  Say  that  to  me, 
before  the  crowd,  before  we  start."  So  when  the 
young  men  were  on  the  piazza  after  breakfast, 
rigged  for  a  day's  yachting,  Le  Clerke  made  his 
excuses,  and  was  allowed  to  stay  at  home. 

Edward  Vaughn's  yachting  party  had  been 
advertised  by  sundry  invitations  of  his  in  several 


A   Yachting  Party.  263 

of  the  most  distinguished  Aubrey  families,  and  by 
consequence  a  bevy  of  young  ladies,  dressed  in 
the  free  and  easy  style  of  picnics,  that  is,  sensibly, 
was  already  on  the  wharf  when  the  party  from 
River  Nook  made  its  appearance.  Then  followed 
the  usual  introductions,  and  the  company  went  on 
board  the  yacht.  Both  Isabel  Seaton  and  Lucy 
Farewell  were  there.  The  rest  were  the  usual 
Aubrey  girls  bound  on  a  holiday,  with  a  festival 
glee  on  their  faces,  and  but  one  matron  among 
them.  So,  while  the  gentlemen  were  getting 
under  way,  the  gentler  sex,  having  bestowed  sun- 
dry shawls  and  reticules  in  safe  places  for  future 
use,  enthroned  themselves  on  the  shady  side  of 
the  deck  to  save  their  complexions,  and  awaited 
the  grave  affairs  which  would  surely  follow  the 
gentlemen's  release  from  making  sail.  Edward 
Vaughn  had  already  managed  to  say  in  a  half- 
whisper  to  Isabel  Seaton,  "  I  shall  steer,  and 
therefore  I  want  you  to  take  a  seat  by  the  helm. 
I  should  make  somebody  jealous  if  I  should 
arrange  a  seat  there  for  you,  so  you  must  please 
go  yourself."  And  that  lady,  quite  as  her  nat- 
ural right,  was  in  the  stern,  with  a  blue  veil  over 
her  face  in  broad  sunshine,  close  to  where  Edward 
Vaughn  was  to  be,  waiting  for  him.  It  was  a 
bright  summer's  day,  with  just  a  breath  of  wind 
to  smooth  the  wrinkles  out  of  the  mainsail  of  the 
Qui  Vive,  as  she  swung  out  from  her  berth  into 


264  A   Yachting  Party. 

the  silent  current,  with  her  head  down  stream. 
Very  soon  the  company  had  divided  themselves, 
according  to  some  mysterious  law  of  affinity,  into 
groups,  where  they  chatted,  sung  snatches  of  sea 
songs,  and  talked  tender,  rambling,  pointless  small 
talk  quite  in  the  fashion  of  such  assemblies. 

Before  the  day  was  over  there  were  at  least  a 
half-dozen  pairs  who  were  not  certain  but  that  they 
were  dead  in  love,  such  subtle  forces  of  the  tender 
god-child  haunt  such  places,  though  the  passion 
usually  dies  out  with  the  passing  of  the  summer's 
day  when  it  first  sees  the  light.  Edward  Vaughn 
steered  his  own  boat,  with  Isabel  Seaton  beside 
him.  To-day  he  was  unusually  quiet  and  atten- 
tive, and  quite  to  her  mind,  she  thought.  He  was 
even  gentle  for  him,  and  disposed  to  silence,  yet  to 
a  shrewd  onlooker  there  was  a  firmness  to  his  lips 
and  a  certain  preciseness  i-n  his  attentions  to  her 
which  boded  no  good ;  for  with  those  we  love  we 
are  never  over-precise  or  guarded.  There  was  in 
his  face,  indeed,  that  peculiar  calmness  which  the 
player  so  often  shows  at  the  Homburg  tables  when 
his  Napoleons  are  piled  upon  the  baize  and  he 
watches  the  turning  of  the  wheel;  for  it  was  in 
him  to  play  his  dangerous  game  to  the  last  ven- 
ture, and  somebody,  he  knew,  must  break.  Still, 
he  looked  very  much  the  lover.  While  he  steered 
he  gave  Miss  Belle,  in  a  low  voice,  the  points  of 
his  boat  and  explained  how  things  were  done  on 


A   Yachting  Parti/.  265 

shipboard,  and  then  a  lesson  in  steering,  when, 
with  those  two  ro*und,  gloved  hands  upon  the 
helm,  she  managed  to  keep  the  Qui  Vive  not  more 
than  three  points  off  her  course.  "Steady,  ma 
chere,  not  too  close  to  the  wind.  You  see  the 
jib  forward  begins  to  shake  a  little ;  too  close," 
and  a  large  hand  was  laid  very  quietly  upon  the 
gloved  hands,  which  moved  not  beneath  the  pres- 
sure. "  There  now,  so."  And  so  it  was.  Isabel 
Seaton  had  the  wit  to  do  anything  well  she  under- 
took, and  Edward  Vaughn  confessed  to  himself 
before  the  morning  passed  that  she  would  make  a 
capital  helmsman.  In  fine,  the  groups,  before  an 
hour  passed,  had  concluded  that  the  two  had  taken 
the  lover's  leap  into  the  dreamland  of  constant 
souls.  Bah !  It  was  a  comedy  that  might  grow 
to  tragedy.  The  young  men  from  the  Nook 
did  everything  but  stare ;  and  wondered  about 
Sam  Le  Clerke's  headache.  They  thought  several 
things,  but  said  nothing.  What  they  thought 
came  upon  the  whole  to  this  :  "  Vaughn  is  not  a 
man  to  meddle  against  any  man,  and  women  are 
queer.  He  has  not  gone  back  on  Le  Clerke. 
But  then,  what  has  happened?  Who  knows?" 
So  they  smoked  their  cigar,  and  paid  their  own 
court  to  the  damsels  beside  them  while  they  sailed 
down  the  river. 

"  You   must   certainly   help   me,    ma  chere,   or 
things  will  go  wrong  on  the  yacht.     The  Scrip- 


266  A   Yachting  Party. 

tures  say,  '  it  is  not  good  for  man  to  be  alone,' 
and  the  boys  yonder  evidently  think  so,  and  so 
do  I.  I  cannot  manage  my  affairs  unless  you  come 
to  the  rescue." 

"  What  more  can  I  do  for  you  than  steer  your 
yacht  as  I  have  all  the  morning  ?  " 

"  It  pleases  a  woman  to  hold  the  reins  or  the 
helm,  you  know,  and  virtue  is  its  own  reward. 
But  now  I  want  you  to  make  a  sacrifice  for  me. 
The  fact  is,  these  folks  must  all  be  fed.  What  a 
bore  this  eating  business  is.  If  ever  I  have  the 
making  of  men  they  shall  never  have  stomachs; 
and  the  Americans  are  always  biting  away  at 
something.  So  are  the  English  —  a  Frenchman  or 
an  Italian  is  more  reasonable.  The  long  and  short 
of  the  matter  is  that  it  is  lunch  time,  and  love- 
making  always  makes  folks  hungry.  Half  of  these 
people  are  famished  already.  I  wish  you  to  help 
me  set  out  lunch  in  the  cabin." 

"  I  shall  be  delighted  to  help  you,  Sir  Edward." 

"  There  !  Sir  Edward  again  !  How  very  for- 
mal. Haven't  I  told  you  divers  and  several  times 
that  you  are  to  call  me  Edward?" 

"And  haven't  I  told  you  divers  and  several 
times  that  it  is  highly  improper  ?  " 

"I  have  no  doubt  of  it.  But  what  of  that? 
A  woman  usually  says  one  thing  and  does  another, 
and  I  take  it  for  a  good  sign  when  one  of  the 
sisterhood  refuses  me  anything.  Besides,  you 


A   Yachting  Party.  267 

make  the  prettiest  of  mouths  calling  me  Edward. 
Try  it." 

"  You  have  a  very  natural  way  of  making 
yourself  disagreeable  when  you  choose,  Edward 
Vaughn,  and  after  your  good  behavior  so  far  this 
morning  I  am  surprised  at  your  vexing  me  in 
this  fashion." 

"Say  Edward." 

"No." 

"  But  I  am  captain  of  this  yacht.  Who  refuses 
to  obey  the  captain's  orders  on  board  ship  ?  Sup- 
pose I  command  you.  What  would  you  do 
then?" 

"Command  a  lady,  Edward  Vaughn?  I  am 
shocked  by  you." 

"  I  am  a  great  sinner  as  ever.  But  please  leave 
off  Vaughn  and  call  me  Edward.  As  for  com- 
manding you,  I  have  done  nothing  else  but  obey 
ever  since  I  knew  you.  Come  now." 

"You  are  the  most  unreasonable  man  I  ever 
knew,  and  that  is  saying  a  great  deal.  What 
possible  good  can  it  do  you  for  me  to  call  you 
Edward?" 

"  It  will  please  me." 

"  Yes,  please  you,  as  it  pleases  men  to  have  their 
own  way,  conceited  creatures  that  they  all  are. 
Do  you  think  I  am  going  to  please  you? " 

"I  have  not  the  slightest  doubt  of  it.  You 
always  please  me,  especially  when  you  have  the 


268  A   Yachting  Party. 

haughty  air  as  now.  And,  besides,  you  ladies 
are  so  generous.  As  for  my  own  way,  I  don't 
see  much  of  that  when  you  are  about.  You 
never  do  anything  I  wish.  Be  singular  for  once, 
and  oblige  me." 

"Is  that  true?" 

"As  true  as  a  great  many  things  I  say  when 
you  are  so  cruel.  Come  now,  please." 

Isabel  Seatoii  chose  to  hesitate  after  all  this 
coaxing;  and,  therefore,  Edward  Vaughn  chose 
also  to  be  quiet  to  give  her  time  to  yield.  So, 
after  a  while,  he  said :  "  I  am  waiting,  ma  chere." 

"  For  what,  pray  ?  " 

"To  have  you  oblige  me  in  that  little  matter." 

"What  an  obstinate  man  you  are.  I  am  posi- 
tively afraid  of  you,  you  are  so  wilful.  Please 
be  quiet." 

"Right  again.  Exactly  as  you  say.  I  should 
be  sorry  to  have  my  behavior  so  uncivil  as  to 
contradict  your  ladyship.  You  compel  me  to 
modestly  insist  that  you  call  me  Edward." 

"  You  tire  me.     How  can  I  break  my  word  ?  " 

"You  made  no  promise,  or,  if  you  did,  a  bad 
promise  is  better  broken  than  kept.  Come  now, 
be  the  sensible  girl  you  are.  If  I  did  not  wish 
it,  I  should  not  ask  it.  In  so  small  a  matter  why 
are  you  so  unkind?  Will  you  help  me  spread 
lunch?" 

There  was  still  no  answer. 


A  Yachting  Party.  269 

"Please  now,  I  am  waiting." 

Isabel  Seaton  yielded  at  last,  with  that  quick, 
uncertain  half-laugh  which  women  use  when  they 
are  about  to  do  a  thing  equivocal.  She  said : 
"  Yes,  Edward." 

"  Thank  you,  ma  chere"  and  there  was  just  a 
shade  of  contempt  visible  at  the  corners  of  his 
mouth.  He  thought :  "  This  is  the  woman  who 
gave  Sam  Le  Clerke  his  headache."  Then  he 
called  John  Walker  aft  to  the  helm,  while  the 
two  went  into  the  cabin  to  prepare  lunch. 

Edward  Vaughn,  having  carried  his  point,  was 
too  clever  to  behave  as  though  he  knew  it ; 
and  so,  while  he  helped  Miss  Seaton  arrange 
lunch,  he  was  one  of  the  most  quiet  and  defer- 
ential of  men.  It  is  a  most  singular  law,  which 
wise  men  have  often  remarked,  that  there  can 
be  no  home  without  a  wife.  It  is  also  true  that 
a  table  is  seldom  well  set  except  by  a  woman. 
And  so  it  was  that  a  score  of  men  like  Edward 
Vaughn  could  not  lay  out  lunch  on  a  yacht's 
cabin  table  as  Isabel  Seaton  did.  The  skill  might 
have  been  in  the  way  she  arranged  the  bouquets 
or  the  geranium  leaves  around  the  butter,  or  in 
a  subtle  blending  of  divers  dishes  into  a  dinner 
picture,  or  in  something  else.  Certain  it  is  that, 
when  lunch  was  spread,  Edward  Vaughn  admired 
the  fashion  of  it. 

"What    a    splendid    housekeeper    you    would 


270  A   Yachting  Party. 

make,  Miss  Belle.  You  have  set  that  table  very 
cleverly.  I  want  a  housekeeper,  as  I  have  told 
you." 

"  What  wages  will  you  pay  ?  " 

"  Ah  !  wages  !  Are  you  for  sale  ?  I  will  pay 
good  wages." 

"What?" 

"  Well  —  I  will  pay  myself,  house,  horses,  dog 
Thor,  all  my  old  clothes,  and  a  little  bank  stock 
to  boot,  for  a  housekeeper  like  you." 

"  I  should  like  the  horses  and  Thor,  but,  as 
for  you,  I  should  have  to  know  first  whether  you 
would  behave  well,  or  as  you  did  this  morning." 

"  If  you  buy  an  estate  you  must  take  it  with 
the  live  stock  on  it  as  it  stands,  and  you  can't 
have  my  horses  without  me.  Will  you  take  us 
all  together  at  a  single  dose?  " 

"Now  you  tease  me  again.  I  have  set  your 
table  for  you.  Now  you  should  go  call  your 
•guests,  and  ask  me  no  more  questions." 

So  he  went  up  on  deck  in  a  very  free  and 
easy  manner  and  called  the  company  to  lunch. 
Some  men  have  a  way  of  showing  by  their  very 
gait  what  passes  in  their  minds ;  and  his,  just 
now,  was  a  tinge  reckless,  and  spoke  disgust, 
as  it  were,  at  everything ;  yet  such  things  are 
seen  not  so  much  with  our  eyes  as  with  our 
instincts,  and  Isabel  Seaton's  were  by  no  means 
sensitive.  So  the  company  had  lunch. 


A  Yachting  Parti/.  271 

It  had  been  arranged  that  the  excursion  should 
be  to  the  Indian  Well :  and  when  the  lunchers  came 
on  deck  they  found  the  Qui  Vive  at  the  bank,  just 
where  a  deep  glen  ran  back  in  among  the  hills.  So 
the  party — baskets,  shawls,  and  all  —  went  up  the 
glen.  It  was  a  gleesome  company  that  went  clam- 
bering over  the  great  boulders  of  the  river  bed  and 
in  among  the  hills,  youth  among  the  young  leaves 
flecked  with  sunshine ;  and  withal  a  pleasant  sight, 
that  gaily  dressed  and  blithesome  company,  as  it 
strolled  among  the  trees  in  pairs,  or  made  itself 
comfortable  on  the  broad  rocks  the  river  had  left 
dry.  Every  one  fared  on  as  they  chose,  but  most 
went  up  to  the  Well.  The  Indian  Well  was  some- 
thing like  a  vast  stone  goblet,  hollowed  out  by  an 
earthquake,  and  then  polished  down  in  shape  by 
the  babbling  brook  that  poured  for  ages  over  its 
west  edge,  to  fill  up  its  depths  with  the  crystal  flood 
of  living  waters.  The  Well  was  open  on  one  side, 
and  hence  flowed  such  waters  as  the  fountain  could 
not  hold.  Its  gray  sides  were  overdraped  with 
living  mosses,  and  the  brakes  grew  everywhere  in 
its  crannies,  and  the  birds  built  nests  in  its  stone 
hollows  over  the  flood.  It  was  a  broad,  round 
pool  with  a  foamy  stream  down  falling  to  it,  where 
the  trout  hide  in  the  warmest  days  —  and  deep. 
It  was  an  old  tradition  that  here  the  Indians  held 
their  midsummer  feast,  and  camped  on  the  hills 
around  it.  To-day  the  children  of  the  pale-face 


272  A   Yachting  Party. 

made  the  old  woods  ring  with  song  and  laugh, 
and  under  the  trees  they  danced  and  wore  out  the 
golden  hours  with  such  bright,  blithesome  pas- 
times as  it  pities  one  should  ever  pass  away  from 
young  hearts  either  in  night  or  winter. 

Edward  Vaughn  and  Isabel  Seaton  devoted  them- 
selves to  each  other,  and  quite  exclusively  took  a 
stroll  by  themselves  in  a  privacy  which  no  one 
invaded.  During  the  course  of  the  afternoon  they 
came  upon  Lucy  Farewell,  at  her  old  pastime  of 
gathering  mosses,  and  with  hands  full  of  wood 
flowers. 

Mr.  Vaughn  reintroduced  the  ladies.  "  This  is 
an  acquaintance  I  made  trout  fishing  —  the  Lady 
of  the  Woods." 

Miss  Seaton  regarded  her  with  a  half-patroniz- 
ing air. 

"How  charming!"  she  said.  "I  have  always 
thought  I  should  like  to  have  been  one  of  the 
Babes  in  the  Wood ;  only  the  risk  of  taking  cold 
is  so  great.  Pray  tell  me,  Miss  Farewell,  do  you 
like  it?" 

"  Yes ;  I  like  the  woods,  and  to-day  I  have 
found  some  very  rare  flowers.  Here  is  a  fringed 
gentian,  not  yet  in  bloom." 

"  I  dare  say.  But  is  it  not  tiresome,  with  no- 
body to  talk  to?"  Lucy  looked  at  the  speaker. 
"  What  an  elegant  lady !  "  she  thought,  "  and  yet 
she  does  not  like  the  woods.  How  can  any  one 


A   Yachting  Party.  273 

not  like  them?"  Yet  Miss  Seaton  spoke  truth. 
The  two  women  were  vastly  unlike.  The  one  was 
a  child  of  nature,  and  loved  her  mother ;  the  other 
was  a  changeling  who  had  forgot  her  relationship. 
It  is  the  test  of  a  woman  that  she  love  God's 
works.  If  she  does  not  love  them,  she  is  con- 
demned in  a  man's  eyes  to  be  less  than  the  best. 

"  I  am  never  tired  of  the  woods,"  she  said. 

"I  cannot  understand  that.  Can  you,  Mr. 
Vaughn  ?  " 

"  I  ?  I  am  never  tired  of  anything  except  eat- 
ing. The  woods  are  the  place  to  shoot  woodcock, 
and  are  worth  fifty  dollars  an  acre,  so  they  say. 
I  like  the  woods  hugely." 

"Come  now,  be  sensible,"  one  woman  said. 
The  other  said  nothing,  but  arranged  her  flowers. 
The  silent  woman  troubled  Edward  Vaughn  more 
than  the  other.  He  felt  himself  her  inferior,  and 
that  somehow  her  nature  stood  apart  from  his 
and  looked  down  on  him.  So,  as  was  his  way, 
lie  amused  himself  talking  nonsense. 

The  interview  rather  bored  him.  "The  fact  is, 
ladies,  I  am  a  poor  hand  to  settle  such  high  things. 
I  suppose  you  are  both  right.  One  of  you  prefers 
a  ball-room  and  one  a  hill-side.  To  waltz  with 
one,  and  pick  nosegays  with  the  other,  is  all  the 
same  to  me.  I  am  at  your  service  —  both."  And 
after  some  more  random  talk  they  parted,  and 
Edward  Vaughn  strolled  on  with  his  companion 


274  A   Yachting  Party. 

who  disliked  the  woods.  They  came  back  finally 
to  the  Well,  on  the  pure  sand  at  its  verge,  over 
which  the  stream  passed  out  to  the  river. 

"Come  here,  ma  chere,"  he  said,  "and  see  your 
face  in  the  pool." 

"Yes,  Edward." 

"How  obedient!  Why  do  you  call  me  Ed- 
ward?" 

"Because  you  have  been  so  good  to-day  and 
have  kept  all  the  brambles  away  from  me,  and  are 
so  gentle." 

"  Excellent !  I  shall  grow  to  be  a  saint,  per- 
haps." 

"  Be  quiet.     There  I  am." 

Edward  Vaughn  looked  over  her  shoulder  into 
the  pool.  It  was  certainly  a  splendid  woman  — 
lithe,  blithe,  in  health,  a  perfect  creature  of  her 
kind;  and  the  face  in  the  pool  ought  to  have 
been  an  angel's.  To  Edward  Vaughn  there  was 
always  the  flavor  of  the  tropics  about  her.  The 
snows  are  vestal ;  so  are  the  Alpine  flowers  fed  of 
the  glacier's  coldness.  But  in  her  the  sun  and 
the  perfumed  breath  of  flowers  which  bloom  where 
the  clime  is  torrid.  He  bent  over  her  till  his 
breath  was  on  her  cheek  and  the  blonde  hair. 

"  Two  faces  in  the  pool,  ma  chere  ;  two  lovers 
that  have  made  no  vows ;  two  people  who  ought 
to  be  very  happy." 

The  woman  made  no  answer,  but  laughed  her 


^L    Yachting  Party.  275 

low,  uncertain  laugh  again.  She  bent  down  to- 
wards the  water. 

"  Hold,  ma  chere ;  your  dress  will  fall  in  the 
water ;  I  will  hold  it."  So  he  held  her  trail  while, 
with  a  child's  glee  almost,  she  pleased  herself 
throwing  the  water  with  her  round,  dimpled  hands 
into  a  spray  of  diamond  drops,  which  fell  into  the 
dark  pool  again  and  disappeared. 

"  This  should  have  been  a  beautiful  creature," 
he  thought.  "But  so  was  Blanche  De  Forest. 
The  devil  ought  to  be  a  woman,  and  then  he 
might  have  his  own  way  with  us  all.  He  is  the 
wrong  sex."  And  a  curious,  ill-omened  smile 
played  around  his  mouth,  while  the  woman  dab- 
bled in  the  water,  and  a  very  peculiar,  unsaintly 
man  held  patiently  her  dress. 

"Flood  tide,  captain;  and  the  boat  floats."  It 
was  John  Walker. 

"All  hands  on  board,"  he  shouted.  "Come,  ma 
chere;"  and  the  party  went  down  to  the  Qui 
Vive. 


CHAPTER    XXVI. 

A    NIGHT    AFLOAT. 

"  WELL,  what  is  the  prospect,  John  ? "  said 
Edward  Vaughn  when  he  came  on  board  and 
had  taken  a  look  at  the  sloop's  streamer,  which 
hung  lazily  about  the  mast  in  the  slant  sunshine. 
"  Shall  we  get  a  breeze  this  evening  ?  " 

"I'm  afeard  not,  Capt'n,  after  sundown,  and 
there's  hardly  a  thimble-full  at  present;  but  the 
tide  will  set  us  up  a  little,  if  we  can  haul  the 
sloop  into  the  stream."  So  they  managed  to  haul 
the  sloop  out  from  the  shore,  and  floated  up- 
stream with  the  tide. 

"  What  would  you  think  of  spending  to-night 
aboard  the  Qui  Vive,  Miss  Belle  ?  "  Vaughn  said, 
as  after  an  hour  or  so  of  this  sort  of  business  the 
mainsail  of  the  sloop  wrinkled  up  for  want  of 
wind,  and  they  made  no  headway.  "  In  ten  min- 
utes the  tide  will  turn,  and  then  we  shall  drift 
down-stream,  and  the  sky  in  the  west  looks  too 
red  for  wind  to-night.  I  think  we  shall  have  to 
anchor  here,  unless  the  mermaids  take  us  in 
tow." 

"  It  would  be  right  nice,  I  think,  Edward." 


A  Night  Afloat.  Ill 

"  Thank  you.  That  will  give  us  a  nice  tete-d- 
tete  under  the  stars,  ah,  ma  chere  ?  " 

"  I  am  happy,  you  know,  where  you  are." 

"  Bravo  !  I  will  fasten  the  Qui  Vive  down  to 
the  river  bottom,  so  that  I  have  plenty  of  time  to 
tell  you  a  thousand  sweet  things,  under  the  night. 
I  wonder  how  our  lovers  yonder  on  the  deck  will 
take  it  ?  " 

"They  wont  object  to  it,  I  am  sure,"  she  said 
with  a  laugh. 

So  he  went  forward  among  the  groups.  "  I  am 
sorry  to  say,  my  friends,  we  must  anchor,  and 
perhaps  stay  here  all  night.  If  anybody  must  go 
home,  I  will  set  them  ashore  in  the  yacht's  boat." 
No  one  wished  to  go.  Several  had  found  the 
yacht  a  very  charming  place,  where  dreams  dwelt. 
A  night  on  the  river  with  such  pleasant  company 
was  a  rare  sensation.  No  regrets  followed  the 
anchor  as  it  went  rattling  over  the  side,  down 
among  the  mermaids ;  and  a  right  royal  merry- 
making followed,  through  the  sunset  and  the 
eventide  far  on  into  the  night.  And  when,  hour 
after  hour,  the  stars  swung  themselves  steadily 
along  their  mighty  orbits  to  the  mid-skies,  or 
descended  towards  the  west,  and  the  young  hearts 
below  them,  full  of  their  fresh  spring  life,  laughed 
and  chatted  until  they  fell  asleep,  one  thought 
soberly  of  how  under  the  same  old  skies  from  age 
to  age  the  human  creatures  live  their  strange 


278  A  Night  Afloat. 

mortal  life,  so  full  of  solemn  things,  while  the 
stars  see  them  and  never  seem  to  pity. 

Edward  Vaughn,  apart  from  the  time  it  took 
him  to  overlook  the  comfortable  disposition  of 
his  guests,  kept  himself  strict  and  fast  to  the 
blonde  lady  who  called  him  Edward.  He  had 
wrapped  her  up  in  a  huge  army  blanket  to  keep 
off  the  dew,  and  they  sat  late  in  the  stern  of  the 
Qui  Vive,  talking  such  things  as  he  had  promised 
her ;  only  he  was  moodish  and  at  times  had  a 
certain  bitterness  about  his  words,  which  even 
she  could  not  fail  to  see.  And  as  the  night  wore 
on,  he  seemed  bent  on  saying  the  strangest  things, 
as  it  were,  about  women.  And  this  too,  when 
Isabel  Seaton  was  behaving  in  her  blandest  fash- 
ion. The  fire  in  his  heart  was  not  love,  but 
rather  a  scorn  for  everything  human,  and  even 
she  grew  alarmed. 

"  Why,  Edward,  how  can  you  say  such  things 
to  me  ?  Have  I  wronged  you  ?  " 

"  Wronged  me  ?  No.  Didn't  I  tell  you  I  was 
Blue  Beard  and  you  shouldn't  come  too  near  my 
heart  ?  People  that  play  with  fire  get  burnt.  I 
am  flame." 

"  But  to-night  you  seem  to  hate  everybody." 

"  I  do  not  hate  men,  but  I  despise  them  —  the 
whole  human  race,  with  exceptions.  I  love  my 
mother  —  and  some  others.  But  the  rest,  they 
crawl,  they  fawn,  they  speak  you  fair  and  stab 


A  NiffJtt  Afloat.  279 

you  underhand ;  they  sell  themselves  for  a  dirty 
sixpence,  if  nothing  better  offers,  and  they  make 
this  world  a  great  dirty  stye  of  lies.  I  want 
another  deluge  to  wash  things  clean,  and  I  myself 
am  too  mean  ever  to  be  admitted  into  the  second 
ark,  if  they  have  one.  Bah  !  " 

"  But  you  will  except  women,  for  my  sake, 
Edward  ?" 

"Yes,  for  your  sake,  most  mighty  queen  of  my 
heart.  Yes,  women  are  perfect.  They  always  are 
so  honest,  so  full  of  truth,  so  sincere,  so  loyal,  so 
unselfish.  They  are  angels,  archangels  —  I  have 
always  found  them  so." 

"  Do  you  really  mean  what  you  say  ?  " 

"  Mean  ?  I  mean  everything  —  nothing.  "Wo- 
man is  the  Sphinx — the  riddle.  That  Egyptian 
woman,  cut  out  of  stone,  and  looking  with 
unmoving,  unslmt  eyes  across  the  Nile  land,  has 
kept  her  secret  thirty  centuries.  Your  sex  will 
keep  theirs  longer.  I  adore  women.  I  wonder 
what  the  medical  students  find  under  the  knife 
in  the  dissecting  room.  It  must  be  great  fun 
dissecting  a  feminine  heart,  for  instance.  I  won- 
der whether  one  ever  found  an  honest  dream, 
a  pure  thought  there,  with  his  knife.  It  must 
look  well  under  the  microscope,  and  so  gentle,  so 
tender,  you  know.  A  woman's  heart  ?  Bah  !  " 
and  he  laughed  a  hard,  reckless  laugh,  as  if  in  a 
pain  which  he  despised. 


280  A  Night  Afloat. 

"  How  can  you  care  for  me,  then,  if  you  think 
so?" 

"As  a  man  who  thinks  so  can  for  anybody, 
and  no  otherwise." 

"Am  I  to  blame  for  what  other  women  have 
done  ?  Have  I  wronged  you  ?  " 

"  Nobody  wrongs  me  any  more.  I  wrong  some- 
body whenever  I  get  a  chance." 

"  What  a  noble,  generous  spirit  you  are,  Ed- 
ward Vaughn." 

"  Thank  you,  my  dear,  I  know  it.  How  easily 
you  framed  that  pretty  mouth  of  yours  to  say 
that  sweet  thing.  You  are  a  charming  judge,  and 
I  had  rather  be  slain  by  you  than  kissed  by  some 
folks." 

"Whatever  I  am,  Edward  Vaughn,  I  am  a 
woman ;  and  if  you  think  of  us  in  that  way,  you 
had  better  leave  me.  I  am  no  better  than  my 
sex." 

"  I  never  mean  to  be  personal.  I  did  not  say 
anything  of  you.  But  as  you  wish  it,  I  will  go 
away." 

There  was  no  answer.  Isabel  Seaton  had  pride, 
strong  but  not  pure,  and  therefore  she  had  not  for 
the  first  time  abased  it  in  this  conversation  with 
Edward  Vaughn.  And  besides,  she  had  her  point 
to  reach.  But  she  was  now  fairly  angry,  and  her 
wrath  controlled  her  for  this  time,  so  that  she 
would  have  broken  with  the  man  who  so  angered 


A  Night  Afloat.  281 

her.  It  was  wise  in  him  to  leave  her,  so  he  went 
forward  carefully  among  the  sleepers,  with  no 
more  particular  purpose  than  to  let  her  passion 
have  time  to  cool.  What  did  such  a  man  care  for 
her  or  any  woman  ?  What  could  he  care  ?  There 
was  one  figure,  wrapped  in  a  shawl,  sitting  by  the 
rest  and  evidently  awake.  He  bent  down  towards 
it  in  the  darkness.  "Who  is  this?"  he  said  in  a 
low  tone. 

"  Lucy  Farewell." 

"  And  you  are  awake  while  all  the  rest  are 
asleep?  Are  you  riot  tired?" 

"  Very,  but  I  can't  sleep,  and  so  I  am  spending 
the  night  awake." 

"  And  with  nobody  to  talk  to  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  like  to  be  alone.  I  am  watching  these 
stars,  and  they  are  company  for  me.  When  I  see 
the  stars  at  night  I  think  of  the  dead  —  of  the 
angels  —  of  a  great  many  things." 

"You  are  a  romantic  lady." 

"  I  don't  know,  sir,  what  I  am ;  but  I  have  told 
you  the  truth.  And  to  show  you  that  I  am  a 
practical  person,  please  tell  me  what  time  we  shall 
get  up  the  river  in  the  morning.  I  must  be  back 
to  my  school." 

"  It  is  difficult  to  say,  Miss  Farewell.  So  you 
teach  school?" 

"Yes;  I  am  what  people  about  here  call  'a 
schoolmarm.'  " 


282  A  Night  Afloat. 

"  What  do  you  do  in  your  school? " 

"I  write  copies,  teach  lessons,  keep  the  little 
folks  in  order,  teach  the  catechism  —  what  teachers 
usually  do  in  a  parish  school." 

"And  you  do  this  every  day?" 

"Yes." 

"  You  are  too  young  to  be  cooped  up  every  day 
in  this  fashion.  I  should  think  you  would  grow 
tired  of  it." 

"  No  ;  it  is  my  duty,  and  a  pleasure." 

"What  is  duty?" 

"  What  one  ought  to  do,  sir." 

"  And  suppose  one  should  not  do  one's  duty  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  understand  you.  Do  you  think  I,  or 
any  one  is  free  not  to  do  our  duty  ?  Do  we  not 
live  for  that  ?  " 

"  I  am  a  poor  hand  at  deciding  such  high  mat- 
ters. Some  people  think  one's  duty  is  to  make 
one's  self  comfortable ;  and  teaching  school,  I 
should  fancy,  would  not  be  exactly  in  their  line." 

"  I  hope  you  are  not  one  of  them." 

"  I  ?  I  have  no  opinions  about  anything.  I 
eat  my  dinners  and  sail  this  yacht." 

Lucy  Farewell  made  him  no  answer.  He  at 
least  had  talked  no  nonsense  to  her,  and  there 
was  an  unconscious  influence  about  her  which 
forced  him  to  be  civil.  He  said  as  he  went  away, 

"  If  we  don't  get  up  the  river  in  season,  John 
Walker  shall  row  you  up  in  the  boat." 


A  Night  Afloat.  283 

"  Thank  you." 

Edward  Vaughn  went  back  to  the  angry  woman 
in  the  stern. 

"  Have  you  quite  forgiven  me,  Miss  Belle  ?  " 

"  You  have  vexed  me,  Edward,  beyond  endur- 
ance." 

"I  told  you  at  the  start  what  a  wretch  I  am, 
and  now  I  have  proved  it.  But  angels  forgive, 
you  know." 

"  I  am  not  an  angel,  nor  do  I  feel  like  one  ;  and 
I  belong  to  the  sex  that  you  think  so  wicked." 

"Let  bygones  be  bygones.  Come  now,  ma 
chere,  forgive  me ;  I  was  very  uncivil.  I  am  a 
lawless,  moody  being,  yet  I  did  not  mean  to  pain 
you.  Let  us  kiss  and  be  friends." 

"If  you  promise  to  behave,  I  will  be  your 
friend ; "  and  a  hand  was  reached  out  from  the 
folds  of  the  grey  blanket  in  which  he  had  wrapped 
her.  So  that  quarrel  ended  with  the  two  beside 
each  other,  the  man  saying  many  tender  things, 
not  one  of  which  was  meant.  They  were  not  a 
saintly  couple  that  sat  by  the  Qui  Vive's  helm. 

In  the  late  morning  time  the  Qui  Vive's  com- 
pany, all  a  little  jaded  and  very  hungry,  were 
landed  safely  at  the  wharf.  Lucy  Farewell  had 
been  rowed  up  the  river  four  hours  earlier,  as  she 
was  promised. 


CHAPTER    XXVII. 

A   MUSICALS   IN    AUBREY. 

ONE  day,  the  week  following  the  events  narrated 
in  the  last  chapter,  when  Edward  Vaughn  came 
home  late  from  a  long  horseback  ride  across  coun- 
try and  entered  his  room,  he  perceived  a  delicate 
perfume  in  it.  He  smiled  in  his  own  peculiar  way, 
for  he  knew  the  cause  of  it.  He  found  a  note 
upon  his  table.  It  was  a  little  note  with  the  red 
initial  letter  "S"  over  the  wax  seal,  and  directed  in 
a  woman's  hand.  He  knew  it  well,  for  he  had  had 
several  already  from  the  same  quarter.  First,  he 
picked  it  up  and  looked  at  it ;  then  he  threw  it 
back  on  the  table  again,  and  proceeded  to  divest 
himself  of  a  pair  of  very  muddy  boots  and  to 
change  his  coat  for  his  dressing-gown.  Then  he 
lighted  his  cigar  and  poked  the  cannel  coal  in  the 
grate  into  a  blaze,  and  when  he  had  prepared  to 
be  comfortable  he  sat  down  at  the  table,  and, 
taking  up  the  note,  proceeded  to  examine  the  out- 
side of  it.  It  was  very  neatly  sealed  and  writ, 
only  the  penmanship  was,  he  thought,  a  trifle  too 
masculine  for  a  lady's.  The  letters  were  over- 
large,  but  the  stroke  of  them  was  thin,  as  a  woman's 


A  Musicale  in  Aubrey.  285 

is,  and  to  him,  who  prided  himself  on  learning 
character  from  handwriting,  the  note  before  him 
was  a  study.  He  held  it  up  to  the  taper  before 
him,  and  its  lines  showed  dimly  through  its  cover. 
The  perfume  of  it  actually  filled  the  room ;  a 
subtle,  intoxicating  fragrance,  that  might  affect  a 
man  to  dreams,  either  good  or  bad,  as  his  nature 
prompted  him.  He  had  years  before  amused  him- 
self by  associating  different  characters  with  differ- 
ent perfumes,  and  he  was  wont  to  hold,  among 
men,  that  you  could  tell  a  woman  by  the  perfume 
she  used.  Indeed,  he  had  gathered  out  of  history 
how,  in  all  ages,  women,  as  the  matrons  in  the 
Roman  Empire,  when  they  grew  in  their  luxury 
to  be  anything  but  angels,  grew  also  to  be  greatly 
skilled  in  perfumes,  till,  as  it  were,  these  became 
the  intoxication  and  delirium  of  their  sense  of 
smell.  The  perfume  of  Isabel  Seaton's  note  had 
nothing  in  it  of  violet  or  crocus,  nor  of  the  spring 
flowers  which  bloom  among  snow  waters  or  among 
the  high  pine  hills  of  temperate  climates,  but  it 
was  altogether  tropical,  sharp,  penetrating,  and 
overmastering,  as  of  a  land  where  the  great,  rich, 
intoxicating  flowers  yield,  under  the  hot  sun, 
their  sweets  to  the  voluptuous  and  heavy,  heated 
air  —  the  perfume  of  an  eastern  sultan's  palace. 
It  might  have  been  the  subtle  impressions  of  this 
perfume  that  filled  his  chamber  which  led  Edward 
Vaughn  into  a  long  reverie  as  he  held  the  note  in 


286  A  Musicale  in  Aubrey. 

his  hand ;  and  in  that  reverie  he  travelled  back 
through  many  past  affairs  that  had  met  him  in 
foreign  lands,  and  dreamed  of  things  not  very  high 
nor  vestal,  but  which  had  about  them  the  fra- 
grance of  this  tropic  perfume.  Then,  at  last,  he 
deliberately  broke  the  seal  and  read.  The  sub- 
stance of  all  that  we  are  concerned  to  know  was 
in  this  sentence :  "  We  are  to  have  a  musical  com- 
pany on  Wednesday  evening,  Edward,  and  I  wish 
you  to  come  up  and  talk  over  with  me  the  guests 
to  be  invited."  When  he  had  read  it  over  once 
he  threw  the  letter  back  upon  the  table  and 
yawned.  Nor  did  he  forget  Sam  Le  Clerke's  let- 
ters, which  they  two  had  burnt  up  in  a  smoky  fire. 

So,  accordingly,  he  went  up  next  day  morning 
to  Isabel  Seaton's,  and  in  the  favorite  alcove  be- 
fore described,  where  he  was  used  to  make  himself 
comfortable,  they  two,  the  woman  on  a  low  otto- 
man beside  him,  looked  over  her  list  of  invitations. 

"I  do  not  see  Lucy  Farewell's  name  here,"  he 
said. 

"  No ;  her  name  is  not  there." 

"But  why  not?" 

"  Why  do  you  ask  ?  Because  I  have  not  put  it 
there.  Is  not  that  reason  enough?  " 

"By  no  means.  Why  in  the  world  did  you 
leave  her  off,  ma  chere  ?  " 

"  If  you  must  know,  because  I  do  not  like  the 
person." 


A  Musicale  in  Aubrey.  287 

"Why  not?" 

"Do  you  wish  me  to  tell  you?  If  I  must,  I 
think  her  a  little  stupid  —  rustic,  an  uncomfort- 
able person  who  annoys  me.  Besides,  I  do  not 
wish  to  have  a  visiting  acquaintance  with  her. 
She  is  not  in  my  circle." 

"  Nonsense  ;  she  is  a  lady  ;  and  suppose  she  isn't 
of  your  set,  what  difference  does  that  make  ?  " 

"All  the  difference  in  the  world.  You  can't 
mix  people  up  in  society.  Do  you  know  that  she 
teaches  the  parish  school  ?  " 

"  Bah  !  now  you  are  aristocrat,  Belle.  I  thought 
you  were  too  sensible  for  that.  You  are  going  to 
exclude  her  because  she  earns  her  bread  as  an 
honest  woman  should." 

"You  wish  to  annoy  me,  Edward.  You  think 
exactly  as  I  do,  if  you  would  only  say  what  you 
think." 

"You  are  wrong  there,  Belle.  I  hate  this 
American  aristocracy,  as  it  calls  itself.  It  is  of 
the  pinchbeck  order,  and  extremely  vulgar.  I  can 
respect  the  claims  of  family  when  it  is  a  thousand 
years  old,  and  its  men  have  been  gentlemen,  and 
lived  and  died  as  gentlemen  under  the  king's  flag, 
and  have  in  them  blood  made  blue  by  a  long 
strain  of  high-toned  and  well-bred  men,  but  this 
aristocracy  here,  of  yesterday,  out  of  a  pork 
barrel,  or  a  cotton  store,  or  a  smith's  forge,  bah ! 
it  ought  to  be  merely  laughed  down.  It  is  too 


288  A  Musicale  in  Aubrey. 

absurd  to  be  angry  with.  No,  Belle.  Here  if  one 
woman  has  two  gowns  to  her  back  and  another 
has  only  one,  the  woman  who  is  better  off  by 
one  gown  than  her  neighbor  looks  down  011  her. 
What  a  sublime  height  she  occupies  with  the  two 
gowns !  No  !  What  I  say  is,  position  is  relative, 
and,  measured  by  European  standards,  we  are,  most, 
beggars  and  upstarts.  America  was  peopled  by 
honest  poor  folks,  who  were  not  ashamed  to  be 
poor  but  were  proud  to  be  that ;  and  when  their 
descendants  give  themselves  airs  I  laugh.  I  look 
through  their  pretension  to  a  log  cabin  and  an 
honest  woman  in  a  blue  woollen  dress  driving 
cows  home  from  pasture,  while  her  good  man  is 
hoeing  corn  in  the  field,  to  find  their  coat  of 
arms." 

"How  can  you  talk  so,  Edward?" 

"  How  ?  Because  I  mean  it,  and  I  don't  mean 
everything  I  say.  You  never  turn  me  out  of 
doors  when  I  come  to  see  you,  because  why? 
Because  I  am  well  dressed  and  live  in  a  big  house 
and  spend  money.  But  my  great-grandfather  was 
a  hard-working  man,  and  yet  you  would  have 
turned  him  out  of  doors  if  he  had  come  ia  a 
homespun  dress  to  court  you,  though  he  was  an 
honest  man  who  made  his  own  money,  while  all  I 
do  is  to  spend  it.  Why  don't  you  set  me  adrift, 
Lady  Isabel?" 

"  All  persons  do  not  get  their  deserts ;  and  be- 


A  Mmicale  in  Aubrey.  289 

sides,  I  like  you.  You  are  so  very  amusing.  You 
amuse  me  now." 

"  Well,  but  I  am  not  in  a  very  amusing  mood, 
I  assure  you.  I  mean  all  this.  I  want  Lucy 
Farewell  invited.  I  honor  her.  She  earns  her 
own  bread,  and  I  eat  somebody's  else.  I  do  that 
because  I  do  not  amount  to  anything,  and  never 
expect  to.  I  should  be  much  more  of  a  man  if  I 
did  some  honest  work  like  other  men.  I  am  a 
drone,  and  I  know  it ;  but  I  never  give  myself 
airs,  which  is  one  of  my  few  virtues,  and  I  respect 
every  man  who  works.  You  young  women  would 
be  much  better  off  if,  instead  of  forever  dressing 
and  eating  your  dinners,  you  had  some  useful 
work  to  do ;  and,  above  all,  you  can't  afford  to 
despise  those  who  have." 

"  What  would  you  have  me  do  ?  " 

"  Mend  your  own  stockings,  and  make  bread  — 
something." 

"  And  what  will  you  do  ?  " 

"Me?  Don't  follow  my  example.  I  am  the 
wreck  of  a  man.  But  I  am  going  to  learn  a  trade 
before  I  die." 

Isabel  Seaton  lifted  her  pretty  eyebrows  in  a 
very  significant  fashion,  as  she  said,  "Edward 
Vaughn  a  mechanic  ?  Charming  !  " 

"Very  well.  An  honest  mechanic  is  worlds 
above  a  mean  gentleman,  as  folks  call  a  man  who 
spends  other  people's  money ;  and  I  may  turn  out 


290  A  Musicale  in  Aubrey. 

one  yet.  The  man  who  doesn't  do  something  to 
feed  himself  is  a  nuisance  —  that  is  all."  There 
was  no  answer  to  this  last  vehemence  of  a  man 
who  for  once  was  sincere.  After  a  long  pause, 
as  nothing  was  said,  he  returned  to  his  point.  "  I 
wish  you  to  invite  Lucy  Farewell." 

"  It  cannot  be  done." 

"Well,  then,  you  may  make  your  own  choice. 
If  she  doesn't  come,  neither  will  I.  I  intend  to 
stand  by  her  against  all  this  nonsense." 

The  man  spoke  almost  angrily,  and  ,there  was 
a  look  in  his  gray  e}7es  that  showed  his  will  was 
not  to  be  safely  hindered.  Isabel  Seaton  had 
some  time  since  found  out  that  in  his  stormier 
moods  there  was  no  use  opposing  him.  She  there- 
fore said  nothing,  though  she  was  greatly  vexed. 
She  held  down  her  head  over  her  list,  until  one 
or  two  great  tears  fell  upon  the  paper.  The  tears 
were  out  of  her  eyes,  not  out  of  her  heart,  and 
were  flavored  with  pride,  which,  if  sometimes 
bitter,  is  seldom  salt.  The  man  beside  her  waited, 
as  he  always  did,  to  have  his  own  way,  and  Isabel 
Seaton  hopelessly  yielded,  as  was  her  wont.  She 
held  up  to  him  her  list.  "  You  can  write  what 
name  you  please."  So  he  wrote  with  his  pencil 
"  Lucy  Farewell "  at  the  bottom.  With  these  two 
people,  according  to  Edward  Vaughn's  manage- 
ment, sunshine  always  followed  a  storm.  Do  you 
ask  what  happened,  in  that  sunshine,  to  the  tears 


A  Musicale  in  Aubrey.  201 

that  still  lingered  in  Isabel  Seaton's  beautiful 
eyes  ?  They  were  kissed  away. 

When  Edward  Vaughn  left  the  Seatons  he  went 
straight  to  St.  Clement's  parish  school.  There  he 
found  Lucy  Farewell  in  the  midst  of  a  crowd  of 
children,  giving  them  a  geography  lesson.  All  the 
little  folks  stared  back  at  the  door  as  he  stood 
there,  and  Lucy  herself,  with  the  slightest  imagin- 
able blush  upon  her  cheeks,  came  down  the  aisle 
to  ask  the  wishes  of  her  novel  visitor. 

His  manner  was  abrupt  with  her,  for  the  morn- 
ing's conversation  had  made  him  angry.  "  There 
is  to  be  music  at  the  Seatons'  to-morrow  evening, 
and  you  are  invited.  May  I  call  for  you  and  take 
you  up  ?  "  and  he  looked  down  at  her  with  two 
very  sharp,  incisive  eyes.  She  hesitated,  a  trifle 
embarrassed.  The  whole  thing  struck  her  as 
singular,  and  unaccountable  by  any  philosophy 
she  possessed. 

"  Why  do  you  ask  me?  "  she  said. 

"  Because  it  pleases  me,  and  I  wish  it.  Some- 
body must  escort  you,  and  I  had  as  well  do  it  as 
any  one.  I  wish  to  call  round  for  you  and  have 
you  go  with  me.  That  is  the  only  reason.*' 

Lucy  Farewell  would  rather  not  have  gone  with 
him,  and  she  was  inclined  to  say  so.  In  fact,  she 
did  not  like  society,  but  Miss  Mary  was  always 
urging  her  to  it,  and  so,  between  her  wish  and 
her  duty,  she  managed  to  speak  a  very  undecided 
"Yes." 


292  A  Musicale  in  Aubrey. 

"So,  then,  this  is  where  you  exist,"  he  said, 
looking  round  the  schoolroom,  whose  appoint- 
ments did  not  seem  to  please  him. 

"This  is  where  I  do  my  duty,  Mr.  Vaughn." 

He  looked  down  on  her  again  with  his  sharp 
glance.  In  fact,  he  looked  her  all  over  before  he 
said, 

"Yes;  I  respect  a  woman. who  does  her  duty. 
I  will  call  for  you  at  half-past  seven  precisely," 
and,  making  his  bow,  he  went  away. 

Edward  Vaughn  produced  a  decided  sensation 
when  he  appeared  at  eight  o'clock  the  next  even- 
ing among  the  musical  folks  at  the  Seatons'  with 
Lucy  Farewell  upon  his  arm.  It  was  as  good  as  a 
play  to  see  the  curious  side-glances  at  the  pair,  and 
hear  the  not  very  flattering  remarks  that  followed 
them  as  Edward  Vaughn,  with  a  sort  of  steady 
tramp,  and  with  bows  on  all  sides  to  the  charming 
creatures  whom  he  felt  were  disposed  to  criticise 
his  companion  after  the  fashion  of  female  justice, 
passed  through  them  to  make  his  salutation  to 
Miss  Seaton,  who,  dressed  in  an  ashes-of-roses 
colored  silk,  with  some  very  elaborate  point  lace 
trimming  (the  superb  creature  she  always  was), 
had  been  nervously  anxious  for  the  last  hour  at 
his  non-appearance.  In  contrast,  Lucy  Farewell 
was  dressed  in  the  plainest  of  black  silks  and  a 
simple  white  collar  about  her  throat,  pinned  to- 
gether by  a  very  small  jet  cross.  When  these  two 


A  Musicale  in  Aubrey.  293 

ladies,  so  unlike,  bowed  to  each  other,  it  was,  to 
the  insight  of  even  a  man  like  Edward  Vaughn, 
Art  and  Nature  saluting  each  other.  He  made 
his  bow,  however,  in  a  very  emphatic  manner,  and 
Avith  a  puzzling  air,  as  though  he  was  not  cer- 
tain whether  he  wished  to  make  himself  agreeable 
or  not.  He  was  not  in  a  very  good  humor,  and 
Isabel  Seaton  knew  it ;  so,  between  the  two,  some 
very  commonplace  things  were  said;  and  when 
Edward  Vaughn,  having  led  her  to  a  seat,  excused 
himself  to  make  his  tour  of  the  rooms  by  himself, 
Lucy  Farewell  had  become  exceedingly  uncom- 
fortable. He  found  the  young  ladies  everywhere 
gracious,  if  not  to  him,  at  least  to  the  elegant 
establishment  at  River  Nook,  which  was  not  him, 
yet  his  also  ;  so  he  had  soon  great  gain  of  smiles 
and  bows  from  that  tender  sisterhood,  which  he 
pocketed  as  graciously  and  about  as  feelingly  as 
he  would  his  napoleons  when  he  played  for  sport 
against  the  bank,  and  won  money  for  which  he 
had  no  special  use.  Men  like  him  have  a  chronic 
distrust  of  almost  everybody.  It  fared  ill,  how- 
ever, with  Lucy  Farewell.  She  was  not  of  the 
"set"  that  to-night  inundated  the  Seatons'  parlors, 
and,  therefore,  was  allowed  to  occupy  her  seat  in 
the  alcove  where  Edward  Vaughn  had  smoked  so 
many  cigars,  unnoticed.  It  was  surprising  how 
many  of  the  young  ladies  who  promenaded  past 
her  were  so  short-sighted  that  they  could  not 


294  A  Musicale  in  Aubrey. 

see  to  bow  to  her,  and  others,  who  had  the  grace 
to  do  so,  seemed,  if  one  may  dissect  so  closely  such 
charming  creatures,  to  have  back-bones  without 
joints.  In  short,  she  was  openly  "  cut "  by  her 
generous  townswomen,  and  she  soon  discovered  it; 
so  also  did  Edward  Vaughn,  who,  amongst  the  gay 
groups  Avith  whom  he  chatted,  found  time  to  watch 
his  protdge,  and  very  soon  saw  how  she  fared.  He 
did  not  hurry  himself,  however,  but  went  on  with 
his  small  talk,  while  a  peculiar  smile,  that  deep- 
ened gradually  to  something  like  a  frown,  came  to 
his  almost  handsome  face.  Yet  the  women  he 
chatted  with  found  him  only  a  little  more  grave 
than  usual,  and  very  polite.  After  a  half-hour  or  so, 
however,  he  found  his  way  back  to  Lucy  Farewell. 

"Charming  company,  Miss  Farewell.  You 
must  enjoy  it  hugely "  (with  a  shrug  of  the 
shoulders). 

She  said  nothing. 

"You  are  not  enthusiastic  enough.  So  sociable 
these  folks  are,  and  well  bred.  I  am  surprised 
you  don't  go  into  raptures  over  it  all.  Isn't  it 
delightful  ?  " 

She  looked  up  into  his  face.  It  was  very  blank 
of  any  expression  that  she  could  understand ;  a 
broad,  grave,  and,  as  an  adept  could  have  told,  a 
dangerous,  sinister  face,  and  with  eyes  looking 
straight  at  her. 

"  I  cannot  tell,  sir,  what  you  really  think,  but 


A  Musicale  in  Aubrey.  295 

you  make  me  feel  as  though  you  did  not  mean 
what  you  say.  I  am  very  uncomfortable  here." 

"  Bravo !  how  frank.  I  give  you  a  lesson.  In 
society,  never  say  what  you  think.  It  is  not  ex- 
pected of  you,  and  would  surprise  people.  Then 
they  will  call  you  odd ;  and  honesty  in  the  world 
shows  like  the  ver}'  odd  thing  it  is.  You  should 
say  the  company  is  charming." 

"  I  do  not  think  so,  and  therefore  I  cannot  say 
so.  Do  you  not  think  it  is  necessary  for  a  lady  to 
speak  the  truth?" 

"  Not  at  all ;  that  is,  as  the  world  goes,  —  and 
you  and  I  are  in  the  world  to-night." 

"I  do  not  like  the  world,  then,  and  wish  to 
keep  out  of  it." 

"  You  would  make  a  charming  hermit  to  live  in 
a  cave  with  the  birds  arid  squirrels  up  in  Roaring 
Brook.  Anywhere  else,  one  must  fib  a  little." 
She  was  on  the  point  of  answering  some  things 
very  plainly,  when  he  interrupted:  "There,  now, 
no  more  talk ;  Miss  Seaton  is  going  to  sing." 

Isabel  Seaton,  whom,  in  her  cares  as  hostess, 
Edward  Vaughn  had  found  it  easy  to  avoid  this 
evening  so  far,  had  seated  herself  at  the  piano, 
turning  over  the  music  sheets,  and  was  about  to 
sing. 

"A  charming  lady  Miss  Seaton  is  —  magnificent. 
I  am  thinking  of  making  her  my  wife.  What  sort 
of  a  spouse  would  she  make  me  ?  " 


296  A  Musicale  in  Aubrey. 

"  I  don't  know  Miss  Seaton.  I  dare  say  a  very 
good  one." 

"  What  a  cold  speech  to  a  lover  like  me  !  You 
should  say  she  is  angelic." 

"  But  I  don't  know  her,  I  tell  you." 

"  No  matter  what  you  know,  you  should  say  so. 
People  don't  know  most  things  they  say.  In  fact, 
they  say  most  when  they  know  least.  Look  at 
her.  What  a  magnificent  figure,  and  that  blonde 
curl  over  the  shoulder  so  nicely  rounded  under 
the  silk.  I  am  very  fond  of  blondes.  I  rave 
about  her.  If  I  marry  her  I  shall  take  her  abroad 
and  have  her  presented  at  court.  She  would  beat 
the  world.  And  she,  poor  lady,  is  so  innocent  of 
my  devotion." 

Lucy  Farewell  looked  at  him  again.  Her  in- 
stinct told  her  —  that  something  in  woman  wiser 
than  all  logic,  and  more  unerring  —  that  the  man 
beside  her  was  somehow  insincere.  "I  do  not 
know  Miss  Seaton;  but  she  is  a  woman,  and  you 
should  not  speak  to  me  —  a  woman  — in  this  way 
about  her.  If  you  thought  of  her  as  you  say,  you 
would  not  speak  of  her  so  to  me,  and  you  should 
not.  I  do  not  wish  to  listen  to  you.  It  is  unjust 
to  her,  and  I  do  not  like  it." 

"  You  must  be  the  Goddess  of  Justice,  or  some- 
thing quite  as  grand.  Now  we  must  listen.  The 
song  comes  now." 

Isabel  Seaton  sung  her  song.     There  are  a  great 


A  Jfuxicale  in  Aubrey.  297 

many  kinds  of  singers.  One  is  the  wooden  kind, 
who  sing  with  the  accuracy  of  a  machine,  and 
with  as  little  emotion.  One  is  the  sentimental 
kind,  who,  without  art,  utter  a  great  deal  of  senti- 
ment in  their  notes,  but  have  no  culture ;  and  of 
singers,  as  of  the  writing  of  books,  there  is  no  end. 
Isabel  Seaton  sang  precisely  and  with  a  certain 
emotion.  In  fact,  her  nature  expressed  itself  in 
song ;  but  her  song,  like  her  nature,  was  southern, 
with  the  southern  fire,  and  dreaminess,  a  trifle  too 
sensuous,  and  with  a  tinge  of  something  that  is  not 
bred  among  violets,  nor  in  a  woman  who  is  a  child. 
It  was  a  song  for  masquerade,  carnival,  or  wild 
dance  in  the  late  hours  of  revel,  but  not  a  strain 
to  be  ever  sung  by  the  cradle  of  blue-eyed  infants 
nor  at  a  bride's  banquet.  Yet  it  was  very  proper 
Italian  music,  and  was  rendered  cleverly. 

Edward  Vaughn  waited  till  the  song  was  through, 
and  then  said  to  the  woman  beside  him :  "  As  you 
do  not  allow  me  to  compliment  Miss  Seaton,  you 
will  excuse  me  from  criticising  her  music ;  and  as 
it  is  very  warm  here,  if  you  like  let  us  take  a  stroll 
outdoors  and  look  at  the  stars,  for  a  change." 

"  I  shall  be  glad  to  go,  sir." 

So  they  went  out  into  the  hall.  "  The  ground 
is  damp.  Have  you  thick  shoes  on?  I  am  old 
fogy  enough  to  have  women  take  care  of  their 
health.  You  had  better  take  your  shawl."  So, 
when  he  had  helped  her  to  her  shawl  and  taken  a 


298  A  Musicale  in  Aubrey. 

general  inspection  of  her  fitness  to  go  into  the 
night  air,  they  went  out  together.  "Stop  a  min- 
ute," he  said,  as  they  went  down  the  walk  towards 
the  gate.  "  This  is  a  great  change  from  indoors. 
Your  shawl  is  not  close  enough  about  }rour  throat. 
I  don't  intend  you  to  catch  consumption  walking 
with  me.  Allow  me,"  and  he  arranged  the  shawl 
about  her  throat,  while  she  pinned  it  there;  for 
Edward  Vaughn  could  be  as  gentle  as  a  woman. 
As  he  did  so,  a  tear  actually  fell  upon  his  hand. 

He  started.  "  How  is  this,  my  child  ?  You  are 
weeping.  What  is  the  matter  ?  " 

"Nothing.  I  am  only  very  foolish,  and  ought 
to  have  more  restraint.  But  I  have  really  been 
very  unhappy  indoors,  and  it  is  such  a  relief  to  get 
out  into  the  free  air  once  more." 

Edward  Vaughn  knew  very  well  what  the  mat- 
ter was,  but  he  did  not  choose  to  say  so.  "  Never 
mind,"  he  said ;  "here  you  are,  out  in  the  air  with 
me.  I  will  take  good  care  of  you ;  and  just  look 
what  a  night !  All  the  stars  are  abroad,  and 
nobody  will  molest  us  here." 

So  they  walked  down  to  the  gate  together,  and 
she  leaned  on  a  strong  arm  until  she  became  tran- 
quil. Edward  Vaughn  himself  was  very  quiet, 
and,  for  a  wonder,  said  nothing  grotesque  or  sar- 
castic. It  might  have  been  the  silence  of  the 
night  or  of  the  woman  with  him  —  he  was  at 
least  quiet.  Yet  he  said,  as  they  came  to 


A  Musicale  in  Aubrey.  299 

the  gate  and  stopped  there  a  moment  before 
they  turned  back,  "  One  of  the  first  things  my 
mother  ever  taught  me  was  to  look  at  the  stars, 
and  how  they  were  great  worlds  ;  and  often  on 
shipboard  or  travelling  at  night,  and  especially 
in  the  tropics,  where  they  are  so  bright,  I  have 
thought  of  the  times  when  she  taught  me  my 
prayers  at  my  bed-side.  You  women  can  do  great 
things  with  this  human  race.  You  should  be 
always  our  teachers." 

Was  it  the  childlike  nature  beside  him  that  was 
leading  him  back  to  his  own  childhood  and  its 
better  thoughts?  Who  knows?  Yet  is  it  not 
writ  of  the  proud  human  creatures  who  think  to 
rule  a  world,  "And  a  little  child  shall  lead  them"? 

So  they  walked  back  to  the  house. 

"  You  had  better  say,  if  asked,  that  we  have 
been  on  the  piazza.  Folks  are  so  inquisitive,  and 
it  is  nobody's  business  where  we  have  been,"  he 
said,  as  they  were  about  to  go  in. 

"I  cannot  say  that.     It  is  not  true." 

"  What  will  you  say,  then  ?  " 

"Say  the  truth,  that  I  have  been  out  walking 
with  you." 

"  But  I  wish  it.     I  like  to  confuse  people." 

"  I  cannot  oblige  you.  Perhaps  it  is  not  the 
common  way,  but  I  must  tell  you  once  for  all 
that  I  can  never  oblige  you  by  saying  even  in  a 
small  matter  what  is  not  true." 


300  A  Music-ale  in  Aubrey. 

"  Suppose  I  am  angry  at  you." 

''I  cannot  help  it  then." 

"What  an  innocent  lamb  you  are.  The  wolves 
will  devour  you  if  you  go  on  in  that  way.  Let 
us  go  in  to  them."  Sure  enough  the  first  person 
they  met  on  entering  was  Isabel  Seaton.  "  I  have 
been  looking  for  you,"  she  said.  "  Pray,  where 
have  you  been  ?  "  Edward  Vaughn  said  nothing, 
but  his  companion  answered,  "  We  have  taken  a 
walk  down  to  the  gate,  Miss  Seaton,"  and  the 
man  assumed  his  stolid,  unreadable  look,  and 
gazed  at  nothing  but  straight  before  him  and 
over  Isabel  Seatori's  head. 

During  the  course  of  the  evening,  when  he  had 
left  Lucy  Farewell  once  more  in  her  niche  by  the 
window,  where  nobody  seemed  to  see  her,  he 
found  himself  tete-d-tete  with  Miss  Seaton. 

"  You  have  deserted  me  this  evening,  Edward." 

"Havel?" 

"Yes,  and  I  know  from  your  manner  that  some- 
thing has  gone  wrong.  What  is  it  ?  " 

"  How  sharp-eyed  you  are!  I  am  in  excellent 
health  and  spirits.  There  is  nothing  the  matter," 
and  his  face  became  very  grave  and  blank. 

"  Yes  ;  it  is  something.  Have  I  done  anything 
to  offend  you  ?  " 

"You?  What  could  you  do?  Why  don't  you 
ask  Miss  Farewell  to  sing  ?  " 

"  Ah,  that  is  the  trouble.     I  will  ask  her." 


A  Musicale  in  Aubrey.  301 

"  Well,  there  she  is  in  the  alcove  yonder.  Sup- 
pose we  go  now  and  do  it."  So  they  two  went 
where  Lucy  Farewell  was  sitting,  and  Miss  Isabel, 
in  her  blandest  manner,  asked  her  to  sing.  It 
was  not  Lucy  Farewell's  wish  to  sing,  and  she  said 
so,  but  Edward  Vaughn  put  an  end  to  the  dispute 
by  saying,  "Don't  be  like  other  folks,  but  sing 
when  you  are  asked.  Miss  Belle  wishes  it,  and  so 
do  I."  So  as  the  easiest  way  she  consented  to 
sing,  and  Mr.  Vaughn  led  her  to  the  piano. 

It  would  profit  nobody  to  count  the  pretty 
shoulders  that  shrugged  themselves  when  Lucy 
Farewell  began  to  sing.  Yet  she  sang  notwith- 
standing. It  was  a  song  that  had  had  a  great  run 
in  its  day,  and  like  all  popular  songs  it  had  the 
elements  of  great  things  in  it.  It  was  a  song 
which  connected  itself  with  a  great  struggle  be- 
tween Eastern  and  Western  Christendom,  and 
its  words  and  spirit  were  English.  In  it  was  the 
pathos  of  free  men,  who  had  given  up  their  beloved, 
to  die  in  war  grapple  with  Russian  serfs ;  the  pain 
and  ache  of  frozen  men  in  the  winter  trenches, 
and  the  regret  of  dying  men  in  bleak  hospitals  ; 
over  all  rose  the  stormy  strains  of  that  warrior 
race,  hungering  for  battle,  which  under  all  suns 
fights  out  on  the  red  field  its  victory  with  the 
soul  of  heroes.  It  was  a  song  not  applauded 
when  Lucy  ended,  but  its  music  was  that  which 
rouses  men  to  great  thoughts.  One  could  not 


802  A  Musicale  in  Aubrey. 

have  told  from  Edward  Vaughn's  face  what  he 
thought  of  it,  but  as  he  bent  over  the  singer  he 
said,  "  That  was  well  done."  The  company 
turned  to  their  talk  again.  It  was  true  that  Lucy 
Farewell  had  sung  her  part  well,  and  also  that  the 
music  was  greater  than  she.  For  music  is  of  no 
clime  or  nation,  but  a  universal  tongue  understood 
by  hearts  of  every  blood.  We  talk  English, 
French,  or  German,  as  we  were  born,  but  music  is 
a  more  catholic  language,  with  no  such  narrow 
limits.  It  is  this  quality  of  music  which  teaches 
us  perhaps  a  great  truth  concerning  the  Here- 
after. It  may  be  the  vernacular  of  heaven.  If 
so,  we  shall  speak  with  our  beloved  forever  in 
music. 

There  was  nothing  further  remarkable  in  Isabel 
Seaton's  musical  party.  Edward  Vaughn  became 
more  gracious  to  her  after  Lucy  Farewell  sang. 
In  due  time  he  also  took  that  lady  home. 


CHAPTER     XXVIII. 

THE    WEDDING   IN   BLACKBERRY    HOLLOW. 

EDWARD  VAUGHN,  since  his  advent  here,  had 
made  much  of  Aubrey  vagabonds  and  poor  folk. 
Polite  tongues  are  wont  to  call  these  the  sedi- 
ment, and  nautical  ones  the  wreckage,  of  society. 
However  named,  they  were  evidently  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  pool  and  well  broken  up  in  the  tide,  so 
boisterous  and  sure,  which  sweeps  us  all  on  and 
away.  He  had  done  this  by  spasmodic  outbreaks 
of  money-giving  and  a  general  habit  of  making 
talk  with  them  wherever  he  met  them.  They 
understood  the  money  part  and  were  too  serene 
philosophers  to  ask  a  reason  for  any  such  unusual 
behavior.  Besides,  there  was  something  in  his 
blunt,  sturdy  ways  that  pleased  them.  Rough 
lives,  at  least  in  everyday  matters,  find  a  certain 
dissonance  in  soft  words.  He  had  already  gained 
a  certain  standing  in  their  strata  of  being.  For 
human  society  may  be  as  truly  exclusive  from 
below  as  from  above.  So  far  as  he  went,  he  did 
this,  not  as  the  great  Shining  One  had,  so  long 
ago,  at  the  Bethesda  porches  or  the  white  strands 
of  Galilee,  with  the  lame  and  impotent  folk,  to 


304      The  Wedding  in  Blackberry  Hollow. 

shew  mercy  on  them,  but  in  the  lawless  outbreak 
of  a  restless  nature,  self-foiled  and  self-avenging, 
with  quaint,  and  on  the  surface  unaccountable,  be- 
haviors. As  he  stood  just  now,  in  actual  assets 
and  by  any  honest  law  of  virtue  he  was  their 
kinsman  in  the  same  tide,  if  at  a  higher  altitude. 
With  the  brighter  of  them  he  bandied  words  and 
laughed  at  their  sordid  jokes,  but  he  gave  the 
others  less  monies. 

"  Granny  Little "  was  one  of  his  favorites. 
What  her  Christian  name  might  be  was  sure  some 
day  to  puzzle  the  doctor,  or  the  undertaker  who 
was  like  to  follow  him  so  closely  at  her  last  ill- 
ness, to  discover ;  but  everybody  knew  her  for 
"  Granny  Little."  The  two  root-facts  of  her 
story,  as  known  to  Aubrey,  were  that  she  was 
an  Irish  immigrant  and  a  trooper's  widow.  Of 
course  other  things  came  on  the  surface,  as  some 
knew  to  their  cost,  to  wit,  that  her  tongue  was 
long  and  sharp  and  her  temper  that  of  a  person 
in  a  perpetual  campaign.  She  usually  showed  in 
public  as  a  little  wizened,  wiry  woman  with  no 
feminine  uncertainty  of  age,  dressed  in  dilapidated 
brogans  several  sizes  beyond  her  measure,  a  gray 
woollen  gown  quite  too  short  to  ever  suggest  a 
train,  and  a  huge,  yellowish-white  cap  with  vagrant 
frills  that  suggested  horns  in  front;  under  which, 
eyes  that  might  once  have  been  a  trifle  blue,  and  a 
medley  of  colors  culminating  in  vermilion  at  a 


The  Wedding  in  Blackberry  Hollow.       305 

dropsical  nose  tip  over  a  mouth  vacant  of  anything 
that  dentistry  could  do  or  save,  and  towards  which 
a  protruded  chin  seemed  always  trying  to  climb 
up,  fashioned  a  face  which  might  best  remind  the 
ungodly  of  the  Queen  of  Clubs  in  a  colic. 
"  Granny's  "  vocation  ran  to  several  things  ;  and, 
as  has  been  said,  she  made  life  a  sort  of  running 
fight  with  her  needs.  She  was  first  of  all  a  poly- 
glot and  catholic  beggar ;  that  is,  she  begged 
anything  of  everybody  who  would  stand  and 
deliver ;  and  woe,  in  her  prayers  and  in  her  sum- 
ming up  of  character,  to  those  who  never  gave. 
For  Granny  had  a  religion,  not  of  that  Roman 
kind  which  was  vaster  than  her  pate  or  heart; 
but  of  the  Roman  kind  so  far  as  it  had  power  to 
enter  upon  the  stony  and  rather  scant  soil  of  her 
own  nature.  It  was  reported  by  her  neighbors 
that  the  day  when  she  had  behaved  most  naughty 
she  always  went  to  mass.  Sooth  to  say,  if  this 
were  strictly  true,  she  must  have  been  a  daily 
devotee.  Only  at  mass  she  was  sure  to  kneel 
longest  at  the  altar-rail  saying  her  prayers,  with 
swingings  back  and  forth  and  spyings  out  of  the 
congregation  between  her  pinches  of  almost  per- 
petual snuff,  until  the  pastor  warned  her  of  the 
scandal,  and  for  a  week  or  so  she  became  in  tongue 
and  temper  a  very  Protestant.  Yet  she  kept  the 
Virgin  and  a  calendar  of  saints  upon  her  tongue's 
tip  for  any  one  who  would  give  her  some  cold 
victuals. 


306        The  Wedding  in  Blackberry  Hollow. 

Granny  lived  under  the  hill  and  kept  two  goats. 
Her  shanty  was  a  bit  of  vague  architecture,  loose 
among  a  mecllev  of  Irish  houses,  where  there  were 

o  v 

no  streets  and  a  deal  of  squatter  sovereignty. 
It  was  an  event  to  see  Granny  going  out  with 
these  goats  to  pasture  whenever  a  stray  tuft  of 
grass  by  the  river  side,  or  any  other  patch  of  ver- 
dure that  Providence  might  order,  offered.  At 
such  times  she  marched  with  a  military  air,  as  if 
scenting  the  battle ;  for  the  Grubtown  urchins 
(for  so  was  Granny's  hamlet  nominated)  had  a 
spite  at  the  goats,  who  were  also  given  to  war,  as 
many  of  the  aforesaid  urchins  had  learned  to  their 
cost,  in  the  dirt  where  these  brutes  had  butted 
them,  and  at  every  chance  they  pelted  their 
horned  adversaries  with  stones.  There  was  sure 
to  be  hot  work  round  Granny's  cabin  at  times, 
when  all  was  quiet  inside  and  she  was  supposed 
to  be  at  her  noon  nap,  and  these  boys  were  not. 
Then  a  stray  stone,  intended  for  the  goats,  but 
rattling  against  the  resounding  house  sides,  made 
it  worse  for  wayfarers  than  digging  honeycombs 
out  of  a  rotten  stump  in  August ;  for  Granny 
swarmed  out  into  all  quarters  while  the  urchins 
hid,  and  the  tide  of  her  tongue  flowed  on  until  the 
neighbors  shut  all  the  windows.  At  such  times 
there  was  wanting  incense  to  purify  the  air? 

A  few  days  after  the  events  told  in  our  last 
chapter,  Edward  Vaughn,  on  his  trip  to  the  vil- 


The  Wedding  in  Blackberry  Hollow.       307 

lage,  met  Granny  seated  by  the  roadside  with  her 
goats.  "Well,  Granny,  how  goes  it?"  But 
Granny  to-day  was  in  one  of  her  tearful  moods, 
into  which  she  fell  whenever  she  had  been  parti- 
cularly naughty  or  was  meditating  some  unusual 
draft  on  somebody's  pocket.  At  such  times  she 
was  much  given  to  frequent  up-passes  of  her  grimy 
right  hand,  at  an  angle  of  some  forty-five  degrees 
over  her  red  nose  tip  and  left  eyebrow,  in  among 
her  cap  frills,  as  if  brushing  away  hairs,  and  her 
voice  became  a  sort  of  chronic  snivel,  meant  to 
vocalize  her  otherwise  hidden  sorrow.  So,  when 
Mr.  Vaughn  addressed  her  his  cheerful  question, 
she  went  through  her  usual  pantomime,  prefacing 
it  with  a  tug  at  her  sere  cap-strings,  gone  astray 
under  her  left  ear,  and  a  down-snatch  at  her  brief 
gown,  in  the  impossible  endeavor  to  bring  it  in 
closer  neighborhood  with  her  brogans,  all  in  the 
way  of  female  vanity,  and  said  nothing. 

"Well,  what  the  dogs  ails  you  now,  Granny? 
Turned  out  for  rent,  or  put  out  of  church  for 
taking  your  morning  bath  in  holy  water?" 

Only  a  series  of  dry  sighs,  with  an  asthmatic 
timbre  to  them,  answered  the  inquiry. 

"  Oh,  I  see  ;  you  are  going  to  die  shortly.  If 
that's  all,  I  tell  you  we'll  give  you  the  biggest 
wake  in  town — plenty  of  pipes  and  whiskey,  with 
lots  of  candles,  —  and  ten  to  one  you'll  enjoy  it 
all  the  same  as  though  it  was  Polly  Maguire"  (her 


308       The  Wedding  in  Blackberry  Hollow. 

next  neighbor  and  farthest  friend)  "in  the  coffin 
instead  of  you.  Cheer  up,  then,  woman,  and 
make  your  best  face  at  it,  if  that  is  all." 

Even  this  promise,  so  full  of  hope,  failed  for 
some  moments  to  check  Granny's  snivel  and  the 
attendant  pantomime  of  grief;  but  at  last  she 
managed  to  blurt  out  in  what  was  meant  to  look 
like  a  supreme  effort  to  master  her  emotions, 
"  Ochone,  it 's  the  weddin'  that 's  killed  me 
in  tire." 

"  A  wedding?  Somebody  run  away  with  your 
sweetheart,  and  you  lone  and  lorn  in  the  high- 
way, with  two  goats  for  comfort?  Shame  on 
you  for  no  good.  Go  to  the  wedding,  and,  behind 
the  bride's  back,  weep  in  that  eloquent  way  of 
yours  for  her  luck." 

"Bad  luck  to  the  likes  of  ye,"  says  Granny, 
stiffening  up,  and  losing  for  the  nonce  her  temper 
(a  state  of  mind  she  emphasized  by  flinging  a 
stone,  hid  in  her  hand,  at  one  of  the  goats,  which 
had  slipped  its  tether)  ;  "  bad  luck  to  your  honor 
(softening  down  her  asperity  to  the  humility  of 
those  beggars  who  expect) ;  "  does  ye  think  I'm  a 
fool  ?  Men  has  been  the  plague  of  me  life,  and  if 
St.  Pathrick  axed  me,  I'd  bid  him  nay  for  his 
answer." 

"  Well,  what,  then,  t*  the  matter?  " 

Her  tongue  once  found,  the  fact  was  easy  to 
tell: 


The  Wedding  in  Blackberry  Hollow.       309 

"Everybody  is  invited  to  the  weddin',  and 
I've  no  thin'  to  clad  meself  in  for  the  frolic." 

"  Oh,  well,  if  that's  all,  Granny,  come  with  me  to 
the  store,  and, we'll  fix  you  out  all  right."  It  was 
fun  to  mark  the  alacrity  with  which  at  this  an- 
nouncement Granny  managed  to  get  on  her  feet, 
and,  with  a  very  shower  of  curtseys  and  the  in- 
vocation of  several  saints,  to  acquit  herself  of  her 
overflowing  gratitude.  At  such  times  of  thanks- 
giving there  was  only  one  way  to  stop  the  out- 
burst, to  wit,  to  begin  one's  self  to  chant  in  one's 
most  solemn  tone  some  Latin  (it  might  be  the  pre- 
face to  Cornelius  Nepos  or  any  other)  plentifully 
interlarded  with  "  Per  ssecula  seeculorum "  and 
"Amens,"  all  in  ritual  fashion,  from  which,  as  an 
unknown  and  potent  incantation,  Granny  always 
retreated  and  vanished  into  distance  with  curt- 
seys, and  it  was  thought  with  counter  prayers  to 
the  Virgin  for  her  sweet  protection.  But  as  Mr. 
Vaughn  did  not  happen  to  know  this  secret,  he 
could  only  let  Granny  conclude  and  gather  her 
goats  for  the  town.  This  done,  and  the  conversa- 
tion continued  by  the  way. 

"  Fine  goats  these  of  yours,  Granny." 

"  Och,  darlin',  thim's  me  comfort  and  me  pace 
of  mind  intirely.  Whin  I'm  vexed,  and  me  neigh- 
bors throuble  me,  I  milk  me  goats.  They's  never 
swears  at  me,  nor  axes  me  for  rint,  nor  goes  roam- 
ing about  like  me  neighbors'  dogs  o'  nights,  and 


810        The  Wedding  in  Blackberry  Hollow. 

are  the  paceablest  saints  in  the  town.  Och,  goats 
is  a  comfort  to  a  poor  woman's  fireside,  and  the 
illigantest  cratures  on  airth." 

"  No  doubt,  Granny,  and  what  do  you  call  these 
illigant  cratures  ?  " 

"  That's  Tim,  and  that's  Peggy.  Tim's  older  nor 
two  years  than  she." 

"  Well,  you  haven't  paid  much  respect  to  gen- 
der in  naming  your  goats  anyhow,  Granny." 

"Ginder!  ginder!  what's  that?" 

"  I  mean  that  both  your  goats  give  milk,  and 
you  have  named  one  of  them  '  Tim.'  " 

"Oh,  that's  what  you  marie  by  'ginder.'  Thin 
I  do  pay  respect  to  ginder.  Thim  goats'  names  are 
for  me  babes,  God  rist  their  sowls." 

"I  never  knew  you  had  any  children,  Granny." 

"  Maybe  not,  but  I  had,  plase  God,  two  babes. 
Tim  was  me  first,  and  had  me  man's  name  ;  both 
died  with  choleray  in  garrison.  I  disremember  the 
name  on  the  sea,  —  Charnel  or  Channel,  I  think 
they  called  it,  somewhere  ;  and  Tim  jist  like  me 
man  ;  and  Peggy  —  ochone,  the  blissedest  babe, 
with  eyes  as  blue  as  hiven  —  both  took  and  me 
lone.  So  I  has  respect  to  'ginder,'  and  I  sez,  I'll 
name  me  goats  Tim  and  Peggy,  and  many's  the 
saison  when  I  calls  me  goats  out  of  the  grass  that 
I  prays  the  Vargin  that  the  grass  may  be  grane 
where  they  sleeps." 

"  So  you  were  married  to  a  soldier,  Granny  ?  " 


The  Wedding  in  Blackberry  Hottoiv.        311 

"  Faith,  it's  yis  I  was,  and  in  church,  too,  honey, 
and  me  man  was  as  straight  and  trim  as  the  best 
that  carried  musket.  And  I  follered  him  long- 
shore and  inshore  until  they  took  us  women  and 
shut  us  up  in  Walmer  Castle  —  ochone,  don't  I 
know  the  cussed  hold,  —  and  they  sent  my  man 
over  sea  to  some  sort  of  loo  —  Peterloo  or  "Watter- 
loo,  where  the  inemy  was,  to  fite  folks  they  had 
never  seen.  And  my  man  he  never  come  back ;  and 
what  was  it  to  me  whin  his  rigiment  was  home, 
and  colors  and  drums,  and  they  said  it  was  a  great 
victory.  But  it  kilt  him,  and  the  babes  were 
gone.  Git  along,  Tim  ;  "  and  Granny  threw  a  chip 
at  that  vagrant  climbing  the  bank  for  a  tuft  of 
clover. 

"\\rell,  well,  Granny,  all  of  us  wear  a  shoe 
that  pinches  somewhere.  The  wedding  will  set 
you  all  right.  Yonder  is  the  store,  and  that  will 
comfort  you.  And  Granny  hurried  on  the  goats, 
and  hitched  them  to  the  pump  outside,  while  the 
two  went  indoors.  The  proprietor,  a  brisk  bust- 
ling trader  with  sandy  hair,  who  kept  on  sale  a 
little  of  everything  except  the  virtues,  listened 
very  readily  to  Mr.  Vaughn's  orders.  "  Here,  Mr. 
Messinger,"  said  the  latter,  "give  Granny  Little 
everything  she  wants  for  an  outfit  for  the  wedding 
in  Blackberry  Hollow,  and  send  the  bill  to  me." 

"  Certainly,"  said  the  shopman.  Then  Mr. 
Vaughn  left,  while  Granny  graced  his  departure  by 


312        The  Wedding  in  Blackberry  Hollow. 

innumerable  curtseys  and  a  more  than  ordinary 
powerful  invocation  of  the  saints  for  his  blessing. 
But  with  his  disappearance  went  her  civilities  as 
well.  The  shopkeeper,  now  in  her  hands,  was 
known,  but  not  dear,  to  her,  and  in  matters  of 
trade  she  had  never  before  known  such  liberties 
or  such  riches.  She  seemed  to  grow  a  head  taller 
all  at  once,  as  her  militant  air  broadened  over  her 
whole  person,  and  with  arms  akimbo  and  incisive 
eyes  from  under  the  gray  lashes,  first  surveyed  the 
store  in  general,  and  finally  halted  at  the  store- 
keeper. 

"What  can  I  do  for  you,  Granny?"  said  that 
person  in  his  usual  shop  style. 

"Oh,  it's  for  me  yees  '11  be  doing,  is  it?  Will, 
thin,  wait  a  thrifle,  and  I'll  be  giving  yees  the 
satisfaction."  So  she  reviewed  the  store  again, 
and  then  came  close  to  the  counter,  and  bent  over 
to  the  shopman's  ear  to  astound  him  with  her 
hoarse  but  solemn  question,  "  Hev  ye:.s  any 
rum?"  Now,  in  the  mind  of  most  persons  rum 
has  at  the  best  or  worst  only  a  very  remote  rela- 
tion to  a  wedding,  and  Granny's  question  certainly 
took  the  man  aback. 

"  You  don't  want  rum  for  a  wedding,  Granny," 
he  expostulated. 

"  What's  a  wake  or  a  widdiug  without  rum,  ye 
Prisbytarian  sapleen.  Yees  might  just  as  well  ate 
yer  dinner  without  first  fire  to  cook  it  as  bury  or 


The  Wedding  in  Blackberry  Hollow.       313 

many  a  dacent  person  without  a  thrifle  to  drink. 
So  give  me  me  rum  and  be  going  afther  it  as 
quick  as  if  yees  was  going  to  your  wife's 
funeral." 

Granny  was  known  to  be  weak  with  rum,  so 
the  man  finally  said,  after  a  vain  attempt  to  put 
her  off  and  to  save  himself  from  a  drunken  wo- 
man at  his  door,  "Well,  Granny,  here  are  some 
bitters,  just  the  thing,"  and  he  handed  her  one 
of  those  mysterious  bottles  of  a  popular  patent 
cough  medicine  which  was  never  known  to  cure, 
and  would  have  confounded  a  whole  college  of 
chemists  to  analyze. 

"  Will  they  bite  hard,"  said  Granny  doubtfully, 
with  an  up-squint  of  her  left  eye  at  the  trader. 

"  Never  fear  that,  Granny,  they'll  bite  down  to 
your  toes,  and  if  you  take  too  much  you'll  think 
a  herd  of  snakes  is  after  you." 

"Thim's  the  jewels,  then,"  said  Granny  (for 
such  folk  like  strong  effects,  even  in  their  diet), 
and  taking  the  bottle  with  its  label  illuminated 
by  a  catalogue  of  all  its  virtues  on  the  outside, 
where  they  only  were,  she  thrust  it  deep  into  the 
capacious  storehouse  of  the  one  pocket  of  the 
woollen  dress,  and  looked  round  for  more.  Her 
eyes  happened  to  fall  on  the  fine  stores  of  sardines 
and  olives.  Of  these  she  had  never  tasted,  but 
she  had  seen  others  do  so  at  the  picnics  where 
she  was  washing  dishes.  So  she  said,  "Give  me 


314       The  Wedding  in  Blackberry  Hollow. 

some  of  thim  little  fishes  and  thim  grane  apples 
in  ile  that  yees  got  on  the  shelf  there." 

"  Oh,  you  mean  the  sardines  and  olives,  do 
you  ?  " 

"  I  mane  thim"  pointing  with  her  fist,  "  and 
give  'em  me  quick  and  don't  be  foolin'." 

"  But  what  in  the  world  have  they  to  do  with 
your  going  to  the  wedding  ?  " 

"  Flinty,  plinty,  you  big  Prisbytarian,  vexin' 
me  there  behind  yer  counter.  Can't  I  rade  me 
Bible  as  well  as  yer  brother  and  know  me  Chater- 
casm  ?  and  it's  meself  that  knows  that  me  stomach 
is  kilt  intirely  this  blessed  day  with  fastin';  and 
how'll  I  go  to  the  weddin'  whin  I'm  only  fit  for 
the  wake  ?  the  saints  defind  us.  Ye'll  murder  me 
if  ye  don't  hurry,  and  me  faintin'  here  like  a  ha- 
then."  So  the  sardines  and  olives  went  into  the 
same  capacious  pocket.  Then  Granny  turned  to 
the  dry  goods.  If  her  deserts  had  been  as  vast  as 
the  outfit  she  coveted  she  would  have  been  a 
paragon.  The  trader  was  ready  to  sell  under  Mr. 
Vaughn's  elastic  order,  but  some  of  Granny's  needs 
seemed  so  remote  from  the  occasion  that  even  he 
often  stumbled  over  her  requests.  The  struggle 
ended  finally  by  Granny's  carrying  off  a  curious 
booty  of  ribbons  of  every  shade  of  the  rainbow 
(though  green  predominated),  and  such  wear  as 
was  fit  for  no  special  season  known  to  woman,  nor 
for  any  mortal  except  herself.  An  immense  hoop 


The  Wedding  in  Blackberry  Hollow.       315 

skirt,  too  elaborate  for  her  pocket,  was  put  on 
over  her  dress  at  once,  and  a  huge  red  woollen 
shawl,  also  worn,  completed  the  outfit. 

Even  then  she  was  hardly  satisfied.  Her  last 
demand  quite  stupefied  the  shopman.  "  Have 
yees  any  incense  about  ye,  darlin'?"  asked 
Granny,  whose  temper  had  gradually  softened 
under  her  increasing  riches.  "  Have  yees  any 
incense  ?  " 

"  Incense  ?  "  said  the  man,  "  do  you  take  me 
for  a  priest  ?  " 

"  Och,  divil's  the  praste  ye'll  be,  and  it's  lucky 
the  day  ye'll  get  out  of  purgatory  for  yer  sins 
in  sellin'  bad  tay  and  shugar  with  sand  and 
harbs  and  what  not  to  them,  for  Christans  like 
me  to  sup.  Hev  yees  any  incense,  I  axes  ye  ?" 

"  No,"  said  the  man  bluntly,  "  I  haven't,  and 
don't  want  any." 

"  But  how'll  I  go  to  the  widdin'  and  not  a  taste 
of  somethin'  to  make  me  smell  fine,  and  give  an 
illigant  touch  to  me  appearance  ?  His  riverince 
towld  us  last  Sunday  morn  that  incense  is  the 
breath  of  saints,  and  how'll  I  go  to  the  widdin' 
and  me  not  carrying  the  blissing  wrid  me?  " 

"  Well,  all  I've  got  is  some  Cologne,  if  that  will 
do  you,"  said  the  shopkeeper.  "I've  got  some 
first  rate  in  those  bottles  there." 

"Well,"  said  Granny,  meditatively;  "it's  a  Pro- 
testant weddin',  anyhow,  and  maybe  it's  all  the 


316         The  Wedding  in  Blackberry  Hollow. 

same  to  thim,  so  I  don't  mind  if  yees'll  give  me 
the  Kerlone."  So  she  took  the  long-necked  bottle 
of  Cologne,  made  by  an  enterprising  Yankee  up 
the  river,  and  this  in  hand  (for  the  pocket  refused 
further  duty)  went  for  her  goats.  The  proces- 
sional to  Grub  town  that  followed  was  not  soon  for- 
got by  those  who  saw  it,  but  Granny  was  too  in- 
tent and  rich  to  mind  the  jeers  and  rambling 
salutes  of  the  bystanders,  and  when  she  came  to  the 
Grubtown  lane  she  halted  to  let  the  goats  browse 
a  trifle  while  she  tried  to  sit  down  under  the  one 
oak  tree  that  kept  guard  and  shade  over  that 
unique  spot.  In  her  laden  condition,  sitting  down 
was  only  easier  than  getting  up  again ;  but  once 
down  she  also  proceeded  to  browse  in  a  very 
guarded  way  upon  what  she  had  in  hand.  First 
she  examined  critically  the  bottle  of  Cologne,  but 
as  she  could  not  read,  the  legend  on  it  might  be  a 
prayer  or  a  curse  for  all  she  knew,  and  she  pro- 
ceeded to  possess  the  olives.  Now,  to  some  per- 
sons their  first  olive  tastes  very  much  as  the  bilge 
water  in  a  ship's  hold  smells ;  and  Granny's  first 
eager  bite  of  that  fruit  set  all  the  wrinkles  of  her 
face  into  strange  contortions.  Then  she  nibbled 
more  daintily  at  it  a  moment,  until  her  disgust 
grew  to  an  absolute  grin  of  abhorrence.  But  it 
was  only  when  she  managed  to  get  herself  on  her 
feet  again  that  she  found  her  voice.  "  O  the  chate 
in  the  store  beyant ;  may  the  divil  broil  his  bones 


The  Wedding  in  Blackberry  Hollow.       317 

for  givin'  me  the  choleray,  shure.  I  niver  ate  sucli 
fruit  since  iver  I  was  a  Christan.  There's  not  a 
pig  in  Grubtown  nor  would  ate  the  same ;  nor  a 
rat,  sure.  It's  thim  Protestants  may  ate  the  same 
and  grow  fat  for  all  I'll  care  a  pistareen,  bad 
luck  to  the  heritics." 

So  Granny  found  her  way  home,  and  tethering 
her  goats  to  the  water-spout  of  her  shanty,  under 
which  the  washtub  of  rain-water  served  for  their 
pool  of  refreshment,  she  set  to  work  to  undo  the 
malice  of  her  first  olive  with  "  the  bitters." 
These  she  uncorked  by  the  aid  of  a  rusty  fork 
and  sniffed  at  the  contents.  "  It  smells  like 
inyons,"  was  her  comment  (and  a  syrup  of  onions 
did  form  its  basis).  "  Inyons  is  healthy,  anyhow." 
So  she  drank  first  cautiously  and  then  with  her 
usual  energy  at  the  concoction.  It  certainly  did 
bite,  as  the  storekeeper  told,  long  after  Granny 
rested.  It  was  a  liquid  beyond  honest  alcohol  in 
vileness,  so  like  others  in  human  use  which  de- 
mand of  all  who  will  survive  them  stomachs  of 
sheet  iron.  After  her  draught,  Granny  proceeded 
to  her  millinery  for  the  coming  bridals.  Her  suc- 
cess, like  that  of  many  others  of  her  like-minded 
sisters,  will  probably  appear  at  the  wedding. 

Meanwhile,  and  all  day  long,  the  wedding  was 
waxing  warm  in  Blackberry  Hollow.  In  this 
ardor  the  good  folk  there  were  neither  amiss  or 
singular,  if  their  engagements  were  to  be  gauged 


318       The  Wedding  in  Blackberry  Hollow. 

by  what  goes  on  among  polite  folk  everywhere. 
The  two  great  events  in  the  theatre  of  a  life 
like  theirs  are  a  wedding  and  a  funeral ;  so  kindly 
does  the  order  of  human  life  provide  both  a  comic 
and  a  tragic  stage  for  all  mortals.  Their  opera, 
perhaps,  is  the  singing  at  a  funeral,  the  comedy 
whereof  is  usually  the  tune.  For  Blackberry 
Hollow,  as  the  name  shows,  was  a  quiet  spot 
among  the  hills,  and  very  much  in  the  form  of  a 
punchbowl,  with  its  sides  reft  east  and  west  by 
the  ravine  through  which  flowed  the  trout  stream 
and  the  ragged  road  that  led  by  the  sawmill  into 
such  a  world  as  the  Hollow  folk  chose  to  find  or 
make.  It  was  in  old  time  the  farm  of  an  English 
immigrant,  who  settled  there  to  serve  God  and 
get  domain  in  the  wild ;  but  as  time  sped  it  had 
been  divided  again  and  again  among  the  genera- 
tions, some  of  whom  were  now  living  in  the  little 
white  or  black  houses  scattered  loosely  along  the 
lanes,  and  nearly  everybody  was  cousin  to  the  rest. 
The  poor  whites  and  the  colored  folk  were  not, 
however ;  but  as  they  were  needed  in  harvest  or 
wood  cutting,  winters,  and  sat  at  meal  time  at 
table  with  their  masters,  there  were  few  social 
bickerings  or  jealousies.  Such  as  there  were, 
however,  were  over  very  minute  points,  and  then 
the  settlement  was  sure  to  be  very  late,  since 
rustic  conservatism  settles  even  a  quarrel  slowly. 
It  was  Farmer  Jones'  daughter  who  was  marry- 


The  Wedding  in  Blackberry   Hollow.       319 

ing  this  time;  and  as  he  owned  most  land  and 
paid  most  wage-money  of  any  hereabouts  this  was 
an  event  to  rouse  the  Hollow.  So  all  day  long, 
at  intervals,  the  creaky  farm  wagons  with  poky 
nags  and  generally  three  earnest  women  in  each 
seat,  unloaded  at  Farmer  Jones'  door  the  cousins 
and  the  aunts  who  came  from  across  the  hills  to 
assist  at  the  ceremony.  Farmer  Jones'  house 
itself  was  a  curiosity.  It  had,  so  to  speak,  run 
wild  under  the  hands  of  its  diverse  owners,  who 
had  tacked  on  here  and  there  a  room,  as  their 
quiver  became  full  of  children  or  the  old  folk 
withdrew  themselves  into  their  corner  away  from 
the  clatter  of  new  nurseries,  until  at  present  it 
looked  like  a  house  trying  to  run  away  from  itself 
at  every  point  of  the  compass.  The  big  black 
barn  behind,  stuffed  full  of  winter  fodder,  seemed 
to  be  always  trying  to  get  into  the  house,  and  its 
yard,  with  its  litter  of  old  wheels  and  the  car- 
casses of  bygone  wagons,  was  always  creeping  up 
to  the  back  door,  whence  the  housewife's  broom 
could  keep  it  only  a  few  paces  off.  It  was  a 
home  as  homes  go  in  this  world,  with  its  good 
points,  but  it  did  not  suggest  or  invoke  the 
Muses. 

Indoors,  and  until  late  afternoon,  the  wedding 
fervor  was  spending  itself  in  such  bakings  and 
brewings  as  furnished  not  exactly  food  and  nectar 
for  the  gods,  but  such  mundane  meats  and  drinks 


320       The  Wedding  in  Blackberry  Hollow. 

as  befitted  the  stout  stomachs  of  the  Hollow  folk 
at  a  revel.  It  was  to  be  noted  on  this  occasion 
that  the  married  women  went  straight  at  their 
work  with  much  vivacity  and  clatter  of  tongues, 
while  the  younger  maidens,  with  less  in  hand, 
went  wandering  through  the  rooms  or  stumbling 
into  the  way  of  the  workers,  as  if  in  a  maze  or 
reverie  over  the  grand  occasion,  and  adorned  the 
festival  with  white  dresses  and  incessant  blushes. 
The  men  folk  were,  for  the  most  part,  to  be  noted 
for  their  absence,  except  the  two  colored  men  who 
did  "  chores "  and  waited  on  the  women.  The 
rest  were  hid  somewhere  behind  the  barn  or  hay 
ricks,  ruminating  their  part  in  the  play.  Their 
final  toilet,  to  be  made  in  odd  rooms  under  the 
rafters,  with  a  preliminary  wash  in  the  brook,  was 
as  vagabond  and  wild  as  the  patches  of  scrub 
thickets  scattered  over  the  slopes  of  their  Hollow. 
So,  when  the  lights  were  lit  till  the  old  house 
blazed  out  in  an  unwonted  brilliancy,  and  the  par- 
son'drove  up  in  his  chaise,  it  was  a  motley  company 
which  filled  the  long,  rambling,  best  room,  with  a 
smell  about  it  as  of  mouldy  apples,  and  received  him 
with  the  courtesy  of  a  silence  which  could  be  felt, 
at  least  by  the  younger  maids  and  boys.  So,  too, 
when  the  bride  and  groom  came  down  from  some 
upper  lodgment  to  "  stand  up,"  as  the  phrase  runs, 
for  the  marriage  formula,  it  was  to  be  noted  that 
the  bride,  who  was  not  homely,  had  more  self- 


The  Wedding  in  Blackberry  Hollow.       321 

possession  than  the  stalwart  but  gawky  groom,  and 
gave  plain  answers,  when  he  only  mumbled  out  a 
medley.  So,  too,  when  the  brief  service  ended 
which  might  be  the  preface  to  many  and  weary 
years  of  their  new  estate,  and  the  couple,  with  the 
good  wishes  of  the  minister,  stood  back  in  one  cor- 
ner to  be  kissed  and  crooned  over  by  all  who  could 
claim  relationship,  the  company  fell  into  its  old 
silence  as  it  ranged  itself  round  the  room  sides  in 
convenient  chairs,  each  apparently  fallen  into  deep 
meditation  again,  as  if  they  had  lost  something 
and  were  trying  to  find  it,  and  not  a  few  wrestling 
with  the  problem  of  their  two  hands,  as  to  whe- 
ther they  were  theirs  indeed ;  and  if  so,  whether 
any  rest  was  to  be  found  for  them  in  this  world, 
at  least  at  a  wedding.  But  when  the  parson,  who 
had  tried  in  vain  to  lift  the  silence  with  a  few 
semi-pleasantries,  left  the  solemnity,  the  spirits  of 
all  instantly  and  curiously  revived.  The  sound  of 
his  departing  chariot  wheels  was  the  call  to  the 
real  wedding  — "  the  second  part,"  as  they  are 
wont  to  call  it,  where  the  last  wine  is  better  than 
the  first.  A  certain  slight  movement  of  the 
mass  went  on  to  deepen  towards  the  kitchen, 
whose  doors  were  now  opened,  and  the  company 
found  their  feet  and  their  tongues  together. 
Then  what  chatter  and  Babel,  while  the  long 
tables,  with  frosted  cakes  and  meats,  and  great 
bowls  of  blackberry  wine,  for  which  the  house  was 


322        The  Wedding  in  Blackberry  Hollow. 

famous,  among  the  smoky  lamps,  displayed  them- 
selves to  the  hungry  throng  which  beset  them. 
Then  the  reserve  guard  of  the  wedding,  the^  farm 
men,  deployed  themselves  from  outside  and  in- 
doors, where  they  had  waited  for  the  feast,  and 
the  whites  of  the  eyes  of  the  negroes  with  fiddles 
were  seen  in  the  gloom  of  the  doorway  leading 
to  the  barn.  Then  followed  that  great  appeal  to 
stomachs,  which  has  such  rare  persuasion  for  human 
kind,  and  the  rollick  and  the  fun  ran  here  into 
rough  joke  and  jostle  among  the  elders  and  when- 
ever an  ancient  maiden  purloined  by  covert,  or 
had  valor  to  take  openly,  a  piece  of  bride  cake 
to  dream  upon  ;  and  became  pianissimo  when  some 
swain  offered  his  blushing  sweetheart  a  glass  of 
wine,  or  tried  at  the  same  time  to  say  some  soft 
things  and  keep  her  neighbor's  elbows  from  trans- 
fixing her  well-starched  muslins  —  and  her  own 
loveliness  to  boot.  The  roots  of  a  wedding  frolic 
in  hovel  or  palace  are  one  ;  only  the  leaves  differ. 
Granny  Little  was  not  one  of  the  folks  who 
came  late.  Her  mental  perturbations  over  her 
new  riches  from  the  grocery  had  neither  held  her 
back  from  a  meal  of  sardines  in  early  afternoon, 
nor  snatched  from  her  the  shrewd  guess  that  there 
would  be  much  to  eat  at  the  wedding.  Accord- 
ingly she  bade  good  day  to  the  goats  tethered  at 
her  washtubs,  and  had  gone  quite  early.  Of 
course,  she  had  gone  at  once  to  the  kitchen,  as  the 


The  Wedding  in  Blackberry  Hollow.       323 

place  for  the  likes  of  her,  and  the  natural  home  of 
that  bountiful  platter  out  of  which  she  hoped  to 
be  fed.  Her  advent  to  the  kitchen,  for  reasons 
which  will  appear  presently,  had  quite  astonished 
the  good  housewives  there,  and  her  supercilious 
and  quite  "  arms-akimbo  "  air,  bred  from  her  new 
riches,  at  the  first  blush  gave  alarm  as  well  as 
offence  to  the  busy  workers.  But  their  good  sense 
and  nature  had  soon  consigned  her,  with  her  own 
consent,  to  the  oak  settle  behind  the  big  stove,  in 
the  recesses  of  the  huge  fireplace,  with  her  back 
to  the  brick  oven,  where  she  watched  events  or 
dozed  at  intervals,  and  where  her  bones  were  sure 
to  be  well  warmed,  as  such  folk  like,  and  from 
whence  it  was  easy  access  to  the  tables. 

During  the  parson's  wedding  prayer  she  had 
vigorously  crossed  herself  to  drive  off  the  fumes 
of  heresy;  and  when  the  feasting  began  she  had 
managed  to  possess  a  full  loaf  of  frosted  cake,  and 
the  huge  tin  dipper  on  the  stove  hearth  helped 
her  to  the  wine.  Apparently,  therefore,  she  was 
now  happy  as  a  queen. 

Edward  Vaughn  also  went,  with  John  Walker 
for  a  guide,  to  the  wedding.  There  is  apparent 
in  most  of  us,  if  we  watch  carefully  enough,  a 
series  of  subtle  instincts  which  connect  them- 
selves with  prehistoric  ages,  when  men  dwelt 
in  caves  and  herded  in  more  democratic  fash- 
ions than  prevail  at  present.  Hence  is  derived 


324       The  Wedding  in  Blackberry  Hollow. 

a  child's  passion  for  cubbyholes  and  hiding-places 
under  the  eaves  of  country  houses,  and  for  the 
smell  of  kine  and  hay  in  barns;  and,  indeed,  the 
liking  of  some  grown  folks  for  cosy  nooks  and 
corners.  It  might  have  come  from  some  such 
secret  fountain  that  Edward  Vaughn,  whose 
social  standing  was  so  diverse,  found  a  real  plea- 
sure in  the  society  of  such  folks  as  those  in  Black- 
bery  Hollow.  The  German  hut,  with  the  cattle 
round  it,  which  was  before  the  castle  or  burgher's 
mansion,  after  all  the  changes  of  his  ancestry, 
might  have  still  been  in  his  blood,  urging  him  on 
to  what  was  at  best  but  a  rustic  wedding.  At 
any  rate,  he  went  with  good  zest,  and  was  pre- 
pared to  be  merry.  When  he  came  in  at  the 
back-door  of  the  aforesaid  kitchen,  which  opened 
every  way,  curiously  enough,  his  sense  of  smell 
was  greeted  by  an  overmastering  scent  of  Cologne, 
and  the  feast  was  at  its  height.  The  bluff,  hearty, 
red-faced  farmer  gave  him  a  warm  welcome  with, 
"Well,  squire,  I  didn't  expect  to  see  you  here 
to-night,  but  it's  all  the  same  anyhow.  Make 
yourself  at  home." 

"With  your  help,  that  I  will,"  was  answered, 
"and  to  show  I  mean  it,  and  as  I  thought  you 
would  have  everything  else  in  plenty,  my  man 
has  brought  over  a  lot  of  smoking  tobacco  to  assist 
the  good  company.  I  had  no  tracts  to  bring,  and 
perhaps  the  tobacco,  anyhow,  is  better." 


The  Wedding  in  Blackberry  Hollow.       325 

"Tobacco  is  in  order  almost  any  time  in  these 
parts,  squire,  and  after  the  boys  are  done  we'll  all 
take  a  whiff  in  the  wash-room.  Mayn't  we,  Ma?" 
addressing  his  bustling  spouse. 

"Yes,  Pa;  you  may  smoke  right  here  if  you 
want ;  anywhere  to  take  off  this  dreadful  smell," 
pointing  to  the  chimney  corner. 

"O,  it's  Granny  smells  so,"  said  several  voices, 
in  explanation.  Then  from  the  depths  before  the 
oven  door  came  forth  a  voice  and  an  apparition. 
The  voice  said,  "  Bad  luck  to  the  likes  of  yees,  to 
be  turning  up  yer  noses  at  the  Kerlone !  May  ye 
never  have  a  candle  at  the  wake  of  one  of  yees." 
Then  Granny  emerged  into  the  light,  bolt  upright 
before  them  all,  and  Edward  Vaughn  could  only 
wonder.  An  immense  coal-scuttle  bonnet  of 
rusty  yellow  straw,  decked  out  with  flaunting 
ribbons  of  all  the  colors  of  the  rainbow,  which 
fell  all  ways  towards  her  feet,  covered,  if  they  did 
not  conceal,  her  head ;  a  huge,  red,  woollen  shawl, 
thick  enough  for  any  thermometer,  registering 
its  lowest  possible,  garnished  her  shoulders ;  while 
below  —  thanks  to  the  hoop  skirts  —  she  looked 
like  a  truncated  beer  barrel  far  gone  in  a  dropsy, 
yet  standing  on  its  own  rim  in  an  impudent 
bravado  against  the  field.  A  vision  of  such 
peculiar  beauty  was  greeted  with  a  general  laugh. 

"  Yees  may  laugh  and  laugh  till  ye  breaks  yer 
bones,  but  where's  the  one  of  yees  fit  to  hold  a 
farthin'  candle  to  meself  that  is." 


826       The  Wedding  in  Blackberry  Hollow. 

"  There,  there,  Granny,"  interposed  Mr.  Vaughn 
against  her  wrath,  "  be  quiet  now,  and  don't  make 
a  disturbance." 

"Disterbance  is  it,  honey?"  said  Granny,  quiet- 
ing down  into  her  finery  ;  "  and  it's  yees  that  have 
brought  the  'baccy,'  but  where  is  the  pipes?" 

"  Be  quiet,  I  say.  You've  no  doubt  got  a  half- 
dozen  in  your  pocket  now,  and  black  at  that." 

"  If  I  had  me  ould  gown  wid  me,  maybe  I  have, 
but  divil  a  pocket  is  on  me  now,  and  how'll  I 
smoke  an  ould  pipe  at  a  wake  or  weddin',  honey?" 

So,  to  quell  her  ancient  Irishry,  some  one  found 
her  a  bran  new  pipe,  with  which  she  retreated  to 
her  corner,  and  there,  what  with  her  frequent 
lavings  of  Cologne,  which  she  bad  brought  in  the 
original  bottle  tied  to  her  waist,  and  a  vigorous 
use  of  the  Virginia  weed,  she  created  an  atmo- 
sphere so  overwhelming  that  several  doors  were 
speedily  opened,  and  nothing  but  the  fear  of  an 
Irish  scrimmage  prevented  some  of  the  younger 
from  trying  to  drive  her  from  her  nest. 

All  weddings,  like  the  tides,  have  seasons  when 
they  flow  or  ebb,  and  their  high-water  mark  is  a 
dance.  So  after  supper  the  wedding  rose  to  a 
dance,  and  Sally  Nally  —  a  wizened,  sallow  woman 
with  very  coarse  black  hair  and  a  glib  tongue, 
very  frequent  at  funerals,  and  like  some  parsons 
very  "happy"  there,  where  her  long  and  stolid 
face,  without  a  shade  of  sympathy  in  it,  reminded 


The  Weddiny  in  Blackberry  Hollow.       327 

one  of  the  hired  mourners  of  an  Egyptian  village, 
— was  floor  manager.  Now  a  dance  is  supposed  to 
be  pastime,  but  a  great  deal  of  labor  went  into 
this  one,  from  the  two  negroes  who  sawed  and 
sweated  over  their  fiddles  up  to  the  dancer  who 
turned  the  wrong  partner  or  trod  upon  her  toes  in 
the  more  ecstatic  mazes  and  the  maid  who  missed 
her  figure  or  her  vagrant  hair-pin  just  when  she 
would  have  looked  bewitching,  or  fell  into  retreat 
with  a  dishevelled  flounce,  while  the  dance  went 
on.  Sturdy  work  there  was  to  take  the  floor  or 
leave  it,  but  their  whole  world  was  looking  on, 
and  so  with  a  supreme  self-consciousness  they 
fared  on  as  stoutly  as  they  could,  until  vigor 
cloaked  awkwardness  with  a  robe  of  public  satis- 
faction. Like  many  another  and  more  urbane 
company,  this  one,  while  it  brought  nothing  great 
to  pass,  greatly  admired  itself,  which  is  all  the 
great  world  can  ask.  But  Granny  Little,  who  for 
some  time  had  been  watching  the  dancers  from 
the  kitchen  wood-box,  gave  her  opinion.  "Thim's 
rather  slim  doings  in  there,"  she  said.  "  If  only 
yee'd  see  an  Irish  jig,  me  darlins."  So,  in  a  pause, 
some  of  the  young  fellows  tempted  her  on  to  show 
them  how  it  was.  So  there  upon  the  kitchen 
floor,  with  two  fiddles,  Granny  danced  her  one  jig. 
What  with  the  ribbons  and  her  other  finery,  not 
to  mention  her  brogans,  there  had  been  seldom 
dance  like  it  seen  upon  this  poor  footstool,  and  it 


828       The  Wedding  in  Blackberry  Hollow. 

was  well  that  the  floor  was  oak.  The  applause 
that  followed  was  very  hearty  —  of  its  kind. 

It  was  just  after  the  episode  of  Granny's  jig 
that  every  one  heard  the  sound  of  a  violin  out- 
doors and  down  the  road.  If  it  was  not  a 
serenade,  it  was  certainly  a  surprise,  as  the  faces 
of  all  showed.  Besides,  the  music  was  coming 
nearer,  and  as  they  listened,  it  seemed  to  reach  the 
elm  by  the  gate  and  halt.  Then  it  began  again, 
and  played  a  strange  medley,  and  yet  without  a 
note  of  wedding  joy  in  it.  As  Edward  Vaughn, 
who  was  an  adept  in  music,  remembered  it  in  after 
years,  it  was  a  weird  fantasia,  broken  and  spray- 
like  as  to  its  parts,  and  yet  with  the  thread  of  a 
theme  running  through  it  so  that  these  parts  co- 
hered. Yet  the  theme  wandered  as  if  bred  from 
an  unsteady  mind,  and  the  spasms  of  its  passion 
were  abrupt  and  vagrant.  It  sounded,  as  indeed 
it  was,  like  the  meditations  of  a  mind  which  saw 
through  a  rift  of  storm  cloud  but  yet  grasped 
fiercely  at  the  intended  melodies.  It  was  neither 
wail,  dirge,  anthem,  command,  or  proclamation, 
but  these  and  more  in  one,  and  the  fire  of  it  was 
lurid  and  of  the  color  of  blood,  no  stars  nor 
flowers  whatever.  It  was  indeed,  not  to  exag- 
gerate, music  of  that  nature  which  might  fitly  pre- 
cede the  judgment  of  a  world.  Only  the  music 
was  that  of  those  who  awaited  sentence. 

The  party  inside  soon  solved  the  mystery.  *'Oh, 


The  Wedding  in  Blackberry  Hollow.       329 

that's  Old  Red  Beard,"  said  one ;  and  the  word 
went  round  that  Old  Red  Beard  with  his  fiddle 
was  in  the  yard  outside.  "  Bring  him  in  and 
give  him  some  wedding  cake,"  said  one.  "  Better 
let  him  alone,"  said  a  dozen  others ;  "  he's  tarna- 
tion stubborn  when  his  fit  is  on  him,  and  to 
meddle  would  make  him  worse.  Let  him  play  it 
out."  So  the  music  went  on. 

"  Who  is  this  man  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Vaughn  of  Far- 
mer Jones. 

"Oh,  wall,  he's  a  curious  feller  that  works 
round  here  hayin'  and  choppin',  and  lives  in  a 
little  hut  by  the  big  rock  above  'the  Well.'  I 
can't  say  'zackly  who  he  is,  nor  much  less  what  he 
is." 

"Is  he  crazy?" 

"  Wall,  there,  Squire,  you  have  me  agin :  p'r'aps 
he  is  and  p'r'aps  he  isn't ;  he's  mixed  up  somehow, 
he's  giggery.  He's  well  enough  at  times;  no 
man  does  a  better  day's  work ;  don't  need  no 
watchin';  but  he  never  eats  with  nobody  and 
always  goes  with  hisself.  He's  tarnation  strong 
too,  you  bet.  I've  seed  him  fling  a  feller  that 
tried  to  steal  his  fiddle  clean  over  the  bush  into 
the  river  as  tho'  he'd  been  a  cornstalk,  and  the 
boys  give  him  a  wide  berth  every  time.  Yet  I 
never  had  no  trouble  with  him,  and  he  takes 
his  pay  as  quiet  as  a  lamb,  and  never  finds  fault 
with  my  reckoning.  The  only  bad  thing  I  know 


330        The  Wedding  in  Blackberry  Hollow. 

of  him  is  that  he  hates  the  wimmen  folks.  Why, 
he'll  get  over  the  fence  and  go  'crosslots  any  day 
rather  nor  meet  a  petticoat ;  and  when  some  young 
rascals  hung  an  old  gown  on  the  bars  that  go 
clown  to  his  spring,  they  do  say  he  took  his  rifle 
and  riddled  it  with  bullets,  and  he's  gone  ever 
since  another  way  to  water.  I  have  hearn  tell 
that  there  was  a  young  woman  in  the  case, —  a 
great  many  young  women  get  into  such  cases,  I 
guess ;  and  when  folks  round  here  don't  know 
what  else  to  say  of  a  queer  feller  they  call  him 
'lovesick.'  But  I  reckon  more  dies  of  measles 
than  of  love,  at  least  in  Blackberry  Holler.  He's 
tarnation  religious,  too  — '  Adventer,'  or  some  such 
name  they  call  him,  allus  preaching  Judgment 
Day  is  comin'  before  snow  falls ;  and  I  wish  it  wor 
come  for  the  fellers  that  steal  my  melons,  Fall 
times.  And  they  due  say  that  about  once  a 
month  he  builds  a  fire  on  the  big  rock  behind  his 
house,  just  for  fun,  I  s'pose,  or  p'r'aps  he  'spects  to 
go  up  in  a  chariat  of  fire,  as  Ichabod  or  some  other 
old  feller  did.  No  !  I  don't  hardly  think  no  man 
can  find  Old  Red  Beard  out.  Leastaways,  I  can't." 

"  If  we  should  go  and  ask  him  in,  would  he 
make  trouble  ?  " 

"No  —  but  he  wouldn't  come,  I  reckon.  This 
house  is  full  of  wimmin  folks,  and  he  knows  it; 
and  what  in  the  name  of  Jack  Robinson  he's 
come  round  here  for,  beats  me." 


The  Wedding  In  Blackberry  Hollow.       331 

"  We  might  go  out  and  see  him,  anyhow.  He 
won't  bite  unless  somebody  strikes."  So  Farmer 
Jones  and  Edward  Vaughn  went  out  and  down  to- 
wards the  gate.  Under  the  big  elm  over  it,  a  man 
stood  playing  on  a  fiddle,  with  his  head  laid  close  to 
it  as  if  listening;  and  when  they  came  up  Vaughn 
saw  that  head  covered  with  long  ringlets,  which 
in  the  moonlight  showed  not  red  but  of  dark  gold 
which  seemed  on  the  point  of  breaking  into  flame. 
The  beard  was  also  —  rare  hair  of  that  color  and 
energy,  so  to  speak,  which  the  Germans  prized  so 
highly  even  before  the  days  of  the  first  Caesar. 
They  came  close  before  they  disturbed. him  at  his 
music.  But  then  slowly  he  lifted  himself  till  the 
violin  went  behind  his  back  and  he  stood  straight 
and  stark  in  the  night  air,  six  feet  and  more,  lithe 
but  slight  —  all  except  the  chest  and  shoulders  — 
as  an  ash. 

"  Much  obleeged  for  that  ere  music,  Red  Beard," 
said  the  farmer,  "  but  ye'd  better  walk  in  and  take 
sumtliin'  —  some  cake,  now,  and  a  sip  of  the  old 
woman's  wine,  Red  Beard." 

"  There  are  two  of  you,"  said  the  man,  not 
noticing  the  proffered  hospitality.  "Who  is  the 
other?" 

"  Oh,  that's  my  friend,  Squire  Vaughn,  who 
lives  over  at  River  Nook." 

"  I  have  never  seen  that  man,"  answered  the 
other  in  the  impersonal  tone  of  one  whose  mind 


332        The  Wedding  in  Blackberry  Hollow. 

was  far  away.  "  I  wish  to  see  him."  So  he  came 
close  to  where  Edward  Vaughn  stood,  and  stoop- 
ing a  little  looked  at  him.  Vaughn  remembered 
that  look  and  face  to  his  life's  end  —  not  a  sharp 
look,  and  yet  one  that  seemed  to  creep  in  under 
the  surface  to  the  bone  and  marrow  of  a  man 
with  a  great  solemn  plea  and  inquest, —  and  yet 
the  eyes  wandered  restlessly  beyond  and  over 
him ;  and  a  face  worn  rather  than  wasted,  with 
the  color  of  red  blood  still  in  the  cheeks,  and  the 
firm  mouth  of  a  man  who  would  be  hard,  in  mor- 
tal strife,  to  break.  He  wore  no  hat,  but  a  huge 
red  muffler  about  his  throat,  and  looked  a  man  of 
forty,  though  the  town  records  would  probably 
show  him  younger. 

"Yes,"  he  went  on  in  his  rapt,  impersonal 
fashion,  with  a  musical  cadence  of  far  away,  as  if 
some  one  out  of  cloudland  were  talking  to  the 
stars.  "  It  is  coming  soon,  and  the  powers  of  the 
air  shall  be  shaken.  I  heard  them  whispering  at 
the  Well  this  very  night,  and  the  leaves  trembled 
at  what  they  said.  Yes;  and  the  Great  White 
Throne  is  coming,  and  the  fire  will  make  clean 
the  wheat.  Yes,"  —  and  the  chant  of  his  voice 
grew  low  and  tremulous  in  sweetness,  as  of  one 
who  already  tasted  a  certain  delicious  joy, —  "  and 
then  the  saints  shall  find  their  white  robes  and  no 
man  shall  sin  nor  weep." 

"Well,  well,"  said  the  good-natured  common- 


The  Wedding  in  Blackberry  Hollow.       333 

sense  farmer,  who  was  himself  awed  into  more 
than  usual  kindness  by  the  man's  strange  utter- 
ance. "  We've  heern  all  that  afore,  and  p'r'aps 
it's  all  true ;  but  I've  a  weddin'  in  my  house  to- 
night, and  my  darter,  they  say,  is  the  bride  —  the 
little  girl,  you  know,  who  you  catched  once  playin' 
on  yer  fiddle  when  you  was  cuttin'  hay  here, 
fifteen  years  nor  more, —  and  ye  kissed  her  for  it, 
too.  Come  now,  go  in  and  see  the  little  girl ; 
you'd  better." 

And  the  man  laid  his  hand  kindly  on  Red 
Beard's  shoulder.  The  latter  started  as  if  struck, 
and  turning  sharply  upon  the  other,  clutched  him 
fiercely  by  the  arm  with  the  grip  he  long  remem- 
bered, though  it  soon  grew  loose  again,  as  of  a 
man  bewildered,  and  yet  he  clung  to  him  and  bent 
down  his  head  towards  the  farmer  as  if  heavy 
with  thought  and  trying  to  recollect  himself. 
Then  after  a  lapse  of  silence  he  slowly  raised  him- 
self, and  said  in  a  hesitating  and  dreamy  fashion, 
as  if  with  himself, 

"I  remember  when  out  of  this  house  in. winter 
my  father  carried  corn  over  the  hill  to  a  home 
where  three  little  children  had  no  bread,  and  how 
one  mother  prayed  a  blessing  on  Farmer  Jones 
at  one  boy's  bedside.  Long  ago,  and  the  winter 
comes  again,  and  the  bed  is  empty  too.  '  Blessed 
are  they  who  give,  for  they  shall  have.'  " 

"Well,  well,"  said  the  good  farmer,  when  all 


334        The  Wedding  in  Blackberry  Holloiv. 

this  had  chanted  itself  out,  "  never  mind  the 
winter  nor  that  ere  corn,  but  come  and  see  my 
little  girl,  how  nice  she  looks  in  that  ere  wedclin' 
white  of  hern." 

So  the  farmer  led  the  man,  fiddle  and  all, 
silent,  and  now  submissive  as  a  child,  into  the 
house  by  the  kitchen  door.  When  Granny  Little, 
from  her  chimney  corner,  spied  him  out,  she  made 
a  grab,  according  to  her  kind  and  judgment,  at 
the  tin  dipper  which  held  her  wine,  lest  he  should 
drink  it,  and  all  the  rest  made  quick  way.  The 
dancers  were  on  the  floor  for  a  new  cotillon,  but 
Red  Beard  passed  among  them  as  if  there  was 
only  air  about  him,  until  he  came  to  the  corner 
where  the  bride  stood  half-cowering  at  the  strange, 
towering  man  approaching. 

"  This  ere  is  my  little  girl,  my  darter,  Red 
Beard,  that  stole  yer  fiddle." 

The  man  did  not  seem  to  hear  the  introduction 
any  more  than  he  seemed  to  see  the  people  round 
him ;  but  he  halted  before  the  bride  and  looked  at 
her,  moments,  it  seemed  to  the  now  silent  com- 
pany, and  the  same  plaintive,  beseeching  look  was 
in  his  eyes  as  when  he  had  prophesied  outdoors. 
Then  slowly,  and  with  a  courtesy  that  might  have 
been  bred  in  a  court,  he  bent  down  and  kissed  the 
bride's  forehead.  Then,  without  a  word,  he  glided 
back  the  way  he  came,  and  was  gone. 

Of  course  there  was  much  instant  gossip  over 


The  Wedding  in  Blackberry  Hollow.       335 

the  affair,  while  the  bride  looked  a  little  pale. 
Most  laughed,  and  all  prepared  to  dance.  But 
weddings  have  their  perturbations  as  well  as  other 
things.  This  time  it  was  a  cry,  or  rather  a  series 
of  cries,  from  the  kitchen,  and  in  the  key  of 
Granny  Little.  The  Red  Beard  episode  had  just 
shocked  the  nerves  of  not  a  few,  and  there  was  a 
general  rush  to  that  quarter.  Would  the  soul  of 
Granny  Little  never  rest  ?  There  she  was,  pirou- 
etting in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  ribbons,  Cologne 
bottle,  rotundity,  all  together  in  an  ecstasy  of 
terror  which  exploded  in  screams.  It  was  long 
before  her  tumult  quelled  to  plain  words. 

"Why,  what  on  airth  ails  ye,  Granny?"  cried 
Farmer  Jones,  who  had  seized  her  by  the  back 
sides  of  her  red  shawl,  fearing  she  might  go  mad 
and  bite.  "  Why,  ye're  yelliu'  like  a  stuck  pig. 
Speak  out,  woman,  quick." 

Granny  passed  through  several  stages  of  recov- 
ery. First,  her  incoherency  turned  to  battle, 
when  she  regathered  her  shawl  skirts  out  of  the 
farmer's  hands  with  a  mien  and  motion  which 
betokened  blows  from  two  Irish  fists  as  imminent. 
Then,  in  her  feminine  modesty,  or  at  least  the 
feigning  of  it,  she  fell  into  the  fainting  mood  and 
called  for  drink,  which  was  granted.  Then,  quite 
exhausted,  she  fell  to  silence,  which  no  one  of  the 
bystanders,  for  a  long  time,  could  persuade  her  to 
abjure.  But  when  she  recovered  that  measure  of 


336        The  Wedding  in  Blackberry  Holloiv. 

health  which  might  be  reasonably  held  to  befit  a 
wedding,  from  the  rocking  chair  in  mid-room, 
where  in  the  fainting  season  they  had  set  her,  she 
told  her  story,  too  long  to  be  repeated  here ;  and 
besides,  the  interjections  of  it  were  not  altogether 
nice.  The  substance  was  this :  "  I  came  to  this 
Protestant  weddin'  and  I  have  seen  the  devil. 
It'll  take  a  dale  of  masses,  me  goin'  to  thim,  to 
clinse  me  sowl." 

"But  where,  Granny  —  where  did  you  see 
him?" 

"Jist  there — jist  there  !"  pointing  to  the  mid- 
dle of  the  wall  before  her.  "  Out  he  comes  upon 
me,  and  if  it  hadn't  bin  for  the  Vargin  —  "  At 
that  instant  of  her  unfinished  sentence,  from  that 
very  wall  side,  through  the  round  hole,  draped 
with  a  wooden  door  on  a  pivot,  sprang  forth  the 
big  house  cat  at  Granny's  feet.  And  then  was 
Granny's  soul  in  danger  again,  and  she  fell  mad 
with  fright.  But  two  sturdy  farmer  boys  held  her 
in  the  chair  till  the  fainting  era  came,  and  shortly 
after  she  was  sent  home  in  the  farmer's  tip-cart. 

"It  was  only  the  cat,  after  all,"  said  one,  and 
the  company  roared  in  response.  Some  were 
curious  to  know  how  Granny  could  have  been  so 
amiss. 

Punch  once  said  of  a  Prussian  king,  a  trifle  too 
fond  of  Clicquot's  champagne,  and  when  the  five 
points  of  the  Eastern  Question  were  on  the  carpets, 


The  Wedding  in  Blackberry  Hollow.        337 

that  every  day  after  dinner  his  Majesty  was  able 
to  discover  ten.  So  the  contents  of  one  tin  dipper 
in  Blackberry  Hollow  might  likewise  have  multi- 
plied Granny's  vision. 

No  one  cares  to  know  how  a  wedding  party  gets 
home  —  except  themselves.  This  one  got  home 
with  the  ordinary  luck.  Granny  rose  late  next 
morning,  as  her  more  serene  sisters  are  apt  to  do 
after  the  feast.  It  was  told  about  town  that  she 
had  had  a  fit  of  catalepsy.  Edward  Vaughn 
gave  his  opinion  of  affairs  next  morning  at  the 
breakfast  table  to  a  couple  of  young  men  on  a 
visit.  "  Yes.  I  believe  in  the  brotherhood  of  man, 
and  all  that.  I  can  swallow  with  my  eyes  shut, 
and  a  cooling  draught  after,  the  Declaration  of 
Independence.  But  I  tell  you  there  are  two 
equalities  possible  for  man  —  an  equality  in  the 
mud,  and  an  equality  among  the  stars.  De- 
mocracy puts  mankind  at  high-water  mark,  but 
you  can  only  keep  him  there  by  an  eternal  use  of 
floats.  For  myself,  when  I  think  how  many  sorts 
of  people  live  within  the  horizon  of  these  hills,  and 
how  they  live,  the  riddle  of  life  seems  more  com- 
plex than  ever." 


CHAPTER    XXIX. 

A   LETTER. 

SHORTLY  after  the  wedding,  Edward  Vaughn 
was  called  away  to  the  city,  on  business,  for  a  fort- 
night. In  his  intervals  of  leisure  he  looked  over 
the  state  of  his  affairs  with  Isabel  Seaton,  and 
it  did  not  please  him.  It  is  from  the  outside,  not 
too  near,  that  one  commonly  gets  the  best  perspec- 
tive, and  takes  the  measure  of  the  situation,  partly 
from  its  circumstance.  When  he  looked,  there- 
fore, as  it  were  from  abroad  upon  his  standing 
with  that  lady,  he  was  surprised  to  find  in  it  a 
danger.  Not  that  he  had  anything  to  lose,  as 
things  went  (for  he  thought  himself  able  to  play  a 
blank  against  the  heart  of  the  whole  female  sex)  ; 
but,  as  he  was  clearly  not  her  lover,  he  saw  fit  to 
ask  himself,  in  a  particularly  lucid  moment,  as  he 
was  dressing,  exactly  what  he  was.  Was  he  a  mere 
vulgar  flirt,  and  so  a  coxcomb  verging  on  gray 
hairs  at  that?  So  it  looked;  but  if  he  were,  he 
felt  that  a  wise  man  would  have  taken  better  care 
of  his  manhood.  Was  he  Le  Clerke's  avenger? 
Who  had  given  him  commission  royal  to  right 
such  wrongs,  or  was  he  a  volunteer  ?  Was  he  her 


A  Letter.  339 

judge,  taking  the  disguise  of  a  somewhat  ardent 
courtship  to  execute  his  own  sentence  upon  a 
woman  who  was  not  even  summoned  to  plead 
before  his  tribunal?  She  had  certainly  done  him 
no  mortal  wrong,  and  might  he  not  be  conspiring 
against  her  peace?  So  what  he  got  out  of  his 
self-inquest  came  to  this,  that  his  had  not  been 
brave  behavior,  and  he  was  bound  to  make  an  end 
of  it.  Indeed,  he  suffered  a  sensation  of  self-con- 
tempt for  several  days  following. 

So  it  was  a  trifle  awkward  to  find  on  his  return 
a  note  from  Miss  Seaton  on  his  table.  It  was 
simply  a  polite  request  that  he  would  come  to  the 
house  at  his  convenience,  as  she  wished  to  consult 
him  upon  a  matter  it  was  hardly  worth  while  to 
put  in  writing.  Of  course  he  went  at  an  early 
date,  and  was  received  with  the  usual  courtesy. 
If  either  face  had  a  shadow  of  change,  it  was  not 
hers.  Only  to  a  keen  and  friendly  scrutiny  was 
her  face  a  trifle  pale,  and  the  eyes  showed  the 
effort  of  self-restraint.  Vaughn,  in  the  self-absorp- 
tion of  his  better  mind,  noticed  neither.  So  when 
he  had  arranged  himself  as  usual,  he  went  at  his 
work  in  the  old  fashion. 

"  Well,  Miss  Belle,  what  is  it  you  want  to  con- 
sult me  about?" 

"  Oh,  nothing  !  that  is  a  trifle.  I  dare  say  you 
will  think  it  nothing.  But  I  was  foolish  enough 
to  get  just  vexed  a  little  when  it  came,  and  wrote 


340  A  Letter. 

you  a  note,  and  then  was  half-sorry  I  sent  it.  The 
fact  is,  I  have  received  a  letter  which  I  am  not 
quite  sure  I  ought  to  show  you,  but  which  perhaps 
you  might  think,  if  you  ever  came  to  know  of  its 
existence,  you  ought  to  have  been  told  of." 

"  A  letter  to  you  which  concerns  me  ?  I'll  bet 
ten  to  one  it  is  a  lady's." 

So  Miss  Belle  went  to  the  mantel,  and  took  out 
somewhere  from  under  its  fringes  a  letter,  which 
she  brought  back  to  him.  Here  is  the  letter  for 
you  to  read.  All  this  was  done  and  said  most 
gently,  even  graciously.  Then  she  went  back  to 
the  piano  corner,  and,  facing  him,  waited  for  him 
to  read.  The  letter  was  without  date  or  signature. 
This  is  what  he  read :  — 

"  It  is  reported  in  this  city  that  you  are  receiv- 
ing the  addresses  of  Edward  Vaughn.  Be  advised. 
Edward  Vaughn  has  no  heart.  He  will  never  love 
any  woman.  He  is  also  pitiless  and  cruel  towards 
our  sex.  Adieu." 

Meanwhile  the  man  read,  and  the  woman 
watched  his  face.  It  was  a  short  note,  and  he 
apparently  reread  it  several  times.  And  as  he 
read,  his  face  seemed  to  her  to  be  slowly  turn- 
ing to  stone,  so  rigid  was  it ;  and  when  at  last  he 
rose  up,  and  went  across  the  room  to  a  table, 
and  took  a  magnifying  glass  from  it,  it  was  as 
if  a  marble  statue  was  walking.  "  Pardon  me  a 
moment,"  was  all  he  said,  as  he  came  back,  and 


A  Letter.  341 

sat  down.  Then  he  examined  the  letter  carefully 
with  the  glass.  When  he  had  done  this,  he  stood 
up  again,  and  looked  at  the  woman  before  him, 
cold  and  almost  expressionless  in  face,  but  with 
pulses  throbbing  until  they  almost  trembled  under 
the  laces  at  her  wrists,  and  said,  "You  should 
never  have  shown  me  this  letter,  Miss  Seaton,  for 
two  plain  reasons :  first,  because  then  it  would 
have  been  as  though  it  was  not,  at  least  as  between 
us  two ;  and  second,  because  it  forces  me  to  say 
some  things  to  you  which  I  might  have  never  said, 
or  said  in  a  very  different  fashion.  This  letter 
you  put  in  my  hands  forces  me  as  to  time  and 
place  to  say  what  at  best  no  man  would  wish  to 
say  of  himself.  Please  be  seated,  and  I  will  speak 
of  this  letter." 

"  I  will,  if  you  please  stand  here." 

"  First  then  "  (approaching  her),  "  please  look 
at  the  handwriting.  Do  you  know  it?" 

"No;  it  looks  to  me  made  up  —  disguised;  and 
yet  it  reminds  me  in  parts  of  some  one's  I  have 
seen.  I  fail  to  make  it  out." 

"  Now  then,  look  at  the  e's  and  i's.  Some  are  in 
usual  form,  but  here  are  a  half  dozen  writ  in  the 
form  of  the  Greek  Epsilon  and  the  Iota  with  its 
grave  accent.  If  you  will  examine  with  this  glass 
this  'the,'  you  will  see  that  the  writer  first  made 
what  we  call  the  Greek  Theta,  and  then  for  her 
own  reasons  over-wrote  it  with  the  ordinary  let- 


342  A  Letter. 

ters.  I  taught  a  woman  once  to  write  these  signs 
into  my  letters  exactly  as  she  writes  here.  I 
know,  also,  by  other  proofs,  your  correspondent." 

"  But  does  the  lady  know  you  ?  " 

"  That  is  what  I  am  bound  to  come  to.  That 
lady  was  once  my  betrothed  wife."  Then  he 
halted  until  the  silence  became  audible  to  one  at 
least  of  the  two,  and  at  last  went  on  in  undertone 
—  and  with  passages  of  vehemence.  "  This  letter 
is  a  true  bill  of  me  and  against  me.  It  is  as  she 
says,  though  she  should  never  have  said  it  — 
never  to  you.  This  woman  I  loved  once  — loved 
as  a  man  first  loves,  loved  as  upon  the  very  knees 
of  my  soul  in  worship.  She  disgraced  herself  and 
me  in  an  outburst  of  passionate  folly,  and  love 
died  with  respect.  I  suppose  my  heart  died  also. 
At  least  I  have  found  it  so.  When  I  say  this,  Miss 
Seaton,  I  accuse  myself  to  you  perhaps  of  more 
than  folly  or  madness,  of  dishonor —  sheer  blank 
dishonor,  as  I  have  been  in  this  house." 

"  I  do  not  accuse  you  of  anything.  To  me  at 
present  you  are  most  interesting.  Please  go  on. 
But  just  be  so  kind  as  to  open  one  of  those  ver- 
andah windows  ;  the  air  is  very  close."  The  man 
looked  at  his  interlocutor.  She  was  pale  almost 
to  white.  Vaughn  sprang  to  her  side.  "  No, 
no,"  said  the  faint  voice,  "it  will  pass  presently. 
Open  a  window,  it  is  so  very  close  here."  When 
this  was  done,  and  Vaughn  came  back,  the  voice 


A  Letter.  343 

said   in  its  sweetest  tones :  "  Please   bring   me    a 
glass  of  water  from  the  hall." 

She  took  the  water  coolly,  and  with  the  dimpled 
hands  sprinkled  it  almost  fondly  upon  the  white 
forehead,  and  after,  holding  her  handkerchief  over 
as  if  to  dry  the  drops,  or  the  fever,  and  the  fever's 
pain  —  who  can  say  which?  "Water  gives  life," 
she  said;  "this  was  very  grateful.  Thank  you 
very  much.  Please  go  on." 

"  There  is  but  one  step  I  can  take  —  that  per- 
haps I  ought  to  take.  It  is  all  I  c.m.  This 
woman's  letter — I — both  have  said  truth.  This 
is  what  I  am.  As  I  am  I  offer  you  my  hand." 

"  There  is  nothing  in  your  hand.  No,  thanks," 
she  said  graciously. 

"But  what  then?" 

"  Nothing  ;  let  us  be  friends.  It  is  a  mere  trifle. 
I  will  take  you  for  a  friend  minus  a  heart. 
Hearts  are  troublesome  things  at  best ;  "  and  she 
laughed  a  low,  silvery  laugh.  Edward  Vaughn 
would  have  protested  further,  but  the  lady  in- 
sisted otherwise;  and  the  conversation  drifted  to 
commonplaces  until  he  took  his  leave.  "  Come  up 
to  dinner,  any  time,"  was  her  parting  invitation. 

The  superb  woman's  pride  of  Isabel  Seaton 
had  conquered  everything, —  heartbreak,  wrong, 
and  the  iron  man  who  craved  mercy  and  had  been 
denied ;  conquered  with  an  outward  decorum  that 
veiled  contempt  and  a  passionate  will  as  strong  as 


344  A  Letter. 

death.     What  was   her   secret   she   had    kept   as 
hers. 

"Tell  Ma,  when  she  comes  in,  that  I  have  a 
headache,  and  shall  not  be  down  to  dinner,"  she 
said  to  the  servant,  as  she  went  to  her  room  and 
locked  the  door  deliberately.  Then  she  went  to 
her  glass  and  saw  herself  pale,  but  with  a  face 
blank  of  expression.  "  Thanks  for  that,"  she 
muttered.  "  He  saw  nothing."  Finally  she  sat 
down  in  her  usual  seat,  facing  the  mantel.  The 
window  each  side  of  it  was  open  to  the  air,  full  of 
sunshine  bathing  the  landscape  with  a  great  peace. 
The  whirl  in  her  brain  was  changing  slowly 
to  that  sullen  pressure  which,  when  unlifted, 
crushes.  Then  it  is  that  the  mind  moves  slowly, 
or  wanders  until  the  will  rouses  to  its  point.  There 
were  no  tears  —  not  one.  Over  the  mantel  had 
always  hung  two  Madonnas,  which  her  taste  had 
put  there  according  to  the  fashion  —  one,  Raphael's, 
the  Dresden  one,  and  the  other  and  smaller  one, 
011  white  porcelain,  below,  the  Mater  Dolorosa  of 
Carlo  Dolce. 

Curiously  enough,  so  unsteady  is  even  a  strong 
mind  under  a  great  burden,  her  eyes  rested,  with 
a  certain  vague  interest,  on  the  first  Madonna. 
She  had  gone  over  the  picture  often,  as  her  nature 
allowed,  —  the  mother's  grace,  purity,  and,  above 
all,  the  infinite  rest  of  her  divine  fruition,  and  the 
child  in  arms,  with  the  veiled  splendors  of  eyes 


A  Letter.  345 

which  seemed  looking  through  time  and  space 
after  His  world — Lion  of  the  tribe  of  Judah  in 
his  birth-blood,  and  brother  of  all  in  love.  She 
went  over  it  all  again  dreamily  and  aimlessly;  all 
the  faces,  poses,  and  gestures  of  it,  and  at  times  a 
subtle  power,  which  seemed  to  cross  her  will,  held 
her  to  it  —  not  in  any  artist's  way  of  analysis,  but 
as  if  something  were  clinging  to  her  soul  in  it.  It 
was  her  Sister  of  Joy  who  called.  Then,  after  a 
while,  her  eyes  wandered  to  the  other  ;  the  woman 
bent  under  an  invisible  cross  —  a  load  not  seen,  — 
and  wan  and  wasted  with  the  passages  of  her  life 
passion,  and  upbn  her  her  mind  roused  itself  to 
grow  intent.  It  even  thought  at  the  picture.  Both 
were  women ;  both  under  the  shadows ;  both 
drinking  deep  a  bitter  draught  —  so  far  sisters, 
yes,  Sisters  of  Sorrow.  Yet  the  cowled  lady  of 
the  picture  had  angels  to  minister  to  her,  but 
the  suffering  woman  there  was  alone  before  the 
mantel;  alone  as  she  thought,  though  the  Ma- 
donnas over  that  mantel  had  left  her  their  legend, 
that  angels  of  rescue  are  everywhere  for  those 
who  call.  Then  her  mind,  under  the  stress,  finally 
wandered  away  into  other  things — back  to  her 
child  days  and  her  mother's  arms,  and  even  the 
glee  and  dance  of  young  girlhood,  in  a  curious 
medley  of  meditation,  such  as  the  mind  takes  on 
when  its  very  roots  are  sharply  moved.  So,  wan- 
dering, she  finally  came  to  her  fate  and  Edward 


346  A  Letter. 

Vaughn.  Step  by  step  —  not  hurriedly,  but  cau- 
tiously—  as  one  who  makes  a  venture  of  his  all, 
she  went  over  all  that  had  been  between  them, 
sometimes  fondly,  and  then  with  passionate  re- 
grets and  sharp  pangs,  for  what  should  not  have 
been.  It  was  true  she  loved  him ;  he  had  touched 
the  inner  fountains  of  her  nature,  and  she  had 
given  him  her  soul — woman  as  she  had  been,  or 
was.  And  he  had  given  her?  An  interview. 
That  was  all  he  said  he  had.  What  then  had  she? 
Hours  together,  pale  and  still,  she  asked  her 
memories  to  answer  her  that  question.  And  when 
she  came  back  out  of  her  past,  she  answered 
slowly,  and  without  mercy  to  herself,  that  she 
had  nothing  —  not  even  an  endless  desert  for  her 
future,  for  the  waste  itself  had  stars  at  night,  and 
hers  was  the  darkness  which  would  never  lift.  So 
far,  then,  she  stood  upon  the  solid  ground  of  a 
fixed  conclusion.  What  next?  she  asked  herself. 
Apparently  it  took  hours  more  to  answer —  till 
nightfall,  —  moving  not  but  making  her  tearless 
inquest.  "  I  shall  be  better  in  the  morning,  Ma, 
and  will  not  come  down  to-night,"  was  her  reply 
inside  her  door  to  that  lady  outside.  "  It  is  only 
a  headache,  which  will  pass — to-morrow."  If  hers 
had  been  a  weak  nature  it  would  have  gone  under 
and  emerged  right  soon  from  its  trouble  refreshed 
and  quite  ready  for  what  more  this  naughty  world 
might  offer.  Or  if  she  had  been  controlled  of 


A  Letter.  347 

conscience  she  would  have  taken  her  fate,  and, 
stripping  off  the  bitter  rind,  have  kneaded  the 
kernel  of  it  into  her  bread  of  life.  Just  as  she 
was,  and  the  great  tide  of  her  soul  rose  under  the 
storm  of  her  pride,  presaging  shipwreck.  Steadily 
grew  that  storm  until  that  tide  was  obliterating 
for  her  the  whole  world — and  him.  Hour  by 
hour  it  rose,  until  it  reached  the  cliffs,  and  beyond 
them,  one  had  writ  of  old,  there  is  no  sea. 

Then  apparently  she  went  at  her  work,  what- 
ever it  might  be.  The  watchers  at  a  sickbed  across 
the  river  afterwards  told  that  there  was  seen  a 
light  all  night  in  her  chamber,  and  they  after 
found  that  the  candles  had  burnt  low  and  been 
replenished.  Sometime,  also,  she  had  set  her  little 
affairs  in  order,  sealed  letters  directed  to  be  re- 
turned, but  not  one  word  of  hers  for  any.  Her 
maiden's  ornaments  and  trappings  were  also  found 
arranged  and  laid  away  with  no  little  care.  Every 
scrap  of  her  writing  had  disappeared  —  probably 
burnt,  as  the  grate  seemed  to  show.  Two  acts 
only  in  this  storm  of  her  pride  showed  traces  of  a 
human  sympathy  still  left  —  the  kiss  she  gave  her 
mother's  picture  on  the  mantel,  and  the  lingering 
gaze  at  her  own  portrait,  when  a  child,  beside  it. 
She  dressed  herself  carefully,  even  to  her  gloves, 
and  prepared  to  go.  It  was  quite  daybreak,  and 
the  house  was  still.  She  could  even  hear  the  low 
breathing  of  her  mother  in  the  adjacent  chamber. 


348  A  Letter. 

She  went  down  the  hall  stairs,  unbolted  the  door, 
and  passed  into  the  night  air.  When  she  came 
to  where  the  gravel  walk  descended  to  the  road 
she  turned  an  instant  and  looked  towards  the 
silent  house  in  the  shadows.  Yes,  it  had  been  her 
home,  she  thought,  and  now  —  the  desert.  Alas ! 
over  her  mantel  were  there  not  even  then  hanging 
those  two  Madonnas  —  sisters  in  woman's  joys 
and  sorrows  forevermore,  and  the  stars  of  peace 
were  swinging  themselves  in  retreat  to  their 
golden  thrones  at  the  coming  of  a  new  day? 
And  why  should  this  suffering  child,  with  the  out- 
stretched hands  of  woman  and  God  to  save  her, 
perish  in  her  past  ?  Yet  she  went  away  on  a  mis- 
sion that  forbade  return. 


CHAPTER     XXX. 

AT   INDIAN   WELL. 

AUBKEY  bells  rang  out  a  sharp,  angry  peal, 
and  then- shortly  after  tolled.  It  was  an  ancient 
custom  to  use  the  bells  this  way  when  one  was 
lost,  to  call  the  citizens  to  the  search.  Edward 
Vaughn  was  with  John  Walker  at  the  wharf, 
overlooking  the  Qui  Vive  for  a  sail,  when  they 
rang.  Of  course,  as  both  were  new  comers, 
neither  knew  their  message,  only  that  it  was 
strange.  A  sense  of  alarm,  coming  somewhere 
out  of  the  air,  and  unreasonably  as  it  seemed  to 
him,  crept  over  Edward  Vaughn  as  he  listened. 

*'  Go  over  to  the  town,"  he  said,  "  and  see  what 
the  trouble  is."  But  the  man  had  hardly  gone 
across  the  lawn  to  the  road  when  a  messenger 
from  the  Seatons  met  him  with  a  letter  for  his 
master.  It  read,  in  brief :  "  Miss  Seaton  left  this 
house  some  time  last  night  and  cannot  be  found. 
The  manner  of  her  going  fills  us  with  the  gra- 
vest apprehensions.  Can  you  help  us?"  Edward 
Vaughn  read  the  sinister  words  with  a  brain 
clamorous  and  roused  to  instant  flame  by  the 
emotions  that  thronged  there.  In  that  short 


350  At  Indian   Well 

moment,  in  a  flash  of  fire,  from  above  or  below, 
as  it  might  chance,  the  whole  landscape,  so  to 
speak,  of  his  past  world  with  her  unrolled  before 
him,  sharp-cut  and  vivid;  and  through  all  the 
crash  and  wildness  of  the  storm  that  was  now 
wrapping  it  in  shadows,  his  conscience  heard  a 
monotone  of  accusations  which  framed  that  one 
word  —  THOU.  Yet  he  had  thought  nothing  out ; 
indeed,  there  was  no  time.  His  soul,  the- whole  of 
him,  roused  to  a  very  delirium  of  self-conscious- 
ness, seemed  to  have  mutinied  against  him,  and 
set  up  for  itself,  so  haughty  and  outspoken  it  was. 
Yet  there  was  only  one  man  in  him,  and  that 
man  had  a  will  which  so  far  in  his  career  had 
asserted  lordship.  So,  in  a  spasm  of  reason,  he 
sprang  at  his  soul  with  his  will  as  it  lay  trem- 
bling and  abased  before  the  open  gates  of  the 
Temple  of  the  Furies,  and  smote  it  down  with 
iron  to  the  more  common  level  of  rational 
thought,  where  it  lay  asking  its  master  what  he 
was  pleased  to  do.  That  was  soon  answered. 
"  My  business  just  here  and  now  is  to  help  find 
this  woman,  Isabel  Seaton.  " 

"  Tell  the  hostler  to  bring  me  my  saddle-horse. 
You  are  to  go  on  with  the  boat,  and  stay  about 
here  where  I  can  find  you  if  I  want  you.  Be 
quick." 

So  while  John  Walker  went  for  the  horse 
Edward  Vaughn  waited  upon  himself.  It  was 


At  Indian  Well.  351 

not  a  merry  comrade,  anyhow ;  quite  the  reverse ; 
and  when  himself  became  mutinous  again  and 
approached  the  stormy  gates,  he  flung  back  the 
offender  without  pity  and  set  himself  to  his  task. 
Vaughn  was  by  nature  a  man  to  act  and  control 
affairs,  though  the  idleness  of  his  money  had  made 
this  mastery  in  him  a  trifle  laggard.  So  when  he 
mounted  his  horse  he  had  laid  out  his  work. 
"All  roads  on  the  Seatons'  side  of  the  river  go 
down  south  to  the  coast,"  he  reasoned,  "  and  that 
way  lies  the  city.  Up  the  river  is  only  the  wild. 
If,  then,  Miss  Seaton  hides  herself,  or  in  any 
maze  or  freak  intends  to  go  to  other  friends,  she 
would  undoubtedly  travel  south.  But  the  road 
through  Blackberry  Hollow  cuts  all  these  roads 
east  and  west.  Follow  that  road  and  perhaps  get 
news  by  the  way." 

So  he  rode  into  Blackberry  Hollow  at  a 
dash.  Farmer  Jones  hailed  him  at  his  gate  with 
"Squire,  who's  lost?  that  them  bells  has  ben 
ringing  for  over  in  the  town." 

Vaughn  told  him. 

"  Well ;  that's  tarnation  curus,  now.  My  man, 
Jake,  here,  went  arter  a  stick  of  timber  airly  this 
mornin',  and  he  telled  the  wimmin  folk  how  he 
seen  a  woman,  just  arter  daylight,  goin'  down  that 
ere  river  road  —  that  ere  road  what  crosses  down 
before  you  come  to  the  sawmill  there.  Here, 
Jake,  I  want  ye,"  he  called  towards  the  house. 


352  At  Indian  Well. 

The  man  came  out,  and  to  Edward  Vaughn's 
sharp  questioning  gave  plain  answers.  He  had 
met  a  woman  on  that  road  early,  about  the  middle 
of  the  second  hill  down  it,  and  she  had  turned 
out  of  the  road  to  her  left  for  his  ox  team.  He 
had  not  seen  or  did  not  remember  her  face.  He 
had  merely  thought  it  was  strange  to  meet  a 
woman  there  so  early,  and  wondered  where  she 
was  going.  .  That  was  all  he  knew. 

So  Edward  Vaughn  rode  down  that  road.  The 
very  rage  of  his  will  was  on  him,  and  the  man 
who  rode  was  carrying  into  his  venture  his 
wholeness  —  the  very  soul  of  him  intent  to  find 
and  to  bring  back.  The  second  hill  was  soon 
reached.  Half-way  up,  a  ravine  of  rocks  and 
bushes  pushed  hard  into  it  on  the  right,  while  on 
the  left  a  sand  gorge  under  the  winter  rains  had 
poured  its  sands  (yellow  sand)  to  the  very  ruts. 
He  checked  his  horse  sharp  and  gave  them  a 
quick,  eager  search.  Yes,  there  they  were,  fresh 
footprints — small,  sharp-cut,  with  the  heel-marks, 
he  noted,  set  incisively  into  the  soft  earth,  as  of 
one  who  hurried  or  was  on  an  errand.  In  that 
lonely  road  just  now,  ten  to  one  and  these  were 
Isabel  Seaton's  footmarks.  He  flung  himself  from 
his  horse,  and,  bridle  in  hand,  he  inspected  them 
on  his  knees.  The  trail  was  down  the  road,  and, 
he  felt,  was  found.  So,  leading  his  horse,  and  with 
head  bent  low  and  eager,  he  followed  it.  Occa- 


At  Indian  Well.  353 

sionally  it  took  to  the  sward  beside  the  path,  or 
crossed  the  road  and  was  lost  for  a  season.  But  the 
then  baffled  man  would  find  it  again  at  the  sand 
stretches,  and  it  always  went  down  the  road.  A 
mile  or  more  of  this  work  and  he  came  to  the 
crest  of  the  hill,  at  the  base  of  which  he  knew 
was  Indian  Well.  It  was  a  rough,  woody  country 
with  broken  rocks  and  boulders  flung  in  among 
the  forest  trees  along  the  hill  slopes.  Here  the 
trail  ended  upon  the  hard  gravel  of  the  summit. 
In  vain  he  laid  himself  to  the  path  and  sought 
for  the  slightest  footmark.  The  road  itself  gave 
no  token.  On  his  right,  the  hill  crest  through 
which  the  road  went  rose  still  higher  under  the 
forest,  but  his  search  along  the  face  of  it,  and  even 
along  at  the  woods  where  the  hill  sank  to  the 
level  again,  gave  no  sign  —  not  even  a  trampled 
leaf  nor  a  bent  bush.  No  one  had  gone  that  way. 
Then  he  came  back  to  where  the  trail  ended, 
searching  the  east  side.  No  sign  anywhere.  So 
the  eager  man  stood  at  the  last  footmark  visible, 
and  forced  his  soul  against  the  problem.  The  last 
footmark  was  straight  down  the  road,  and  yet  it 
was  clear  that  she  had  not  gone  that  way.  What 
then?  He  tied  his  horse  by  the  road  side  and 
looked.  Through  the  thin  trees  by  the  roadside 
eastward  there  showed  an  open  field.  If  she 
went  down  to  the  Well,  he  reasoned,  a  woman 
would  rather  take  this  field  than  the  woods. 


354  At  Indian  Well 

"I  will  search  back  and  cross  her  track  if  she 
has  gone  there."  So  he  went  back  the  way  he 
came,  carefully  sparing  the  silent  footprints  in 
the  sands,  until  he  came  to  the  field  corner. 
Then  he  swung  himself  over  the  bush  fence  and 
emerged  into  the  open.  Ah !  how  many  times 
after  did  he  recall  his  glance  in  that  late  summer 
day  at  that  landscape  below  in  the  sunshine  —  the 
lazy  smoke  of  the  factory  chimneys  rising  into 
cloud  pillars  against  the  white  north,  the  peaceful 
white  cottages  among  green  fields  and  the  sails  of 
the  vessels  going  upon  the  winding  river,  deep 
among  its  pine  hills,  toward  the  sea.  And  his 
mission  here  ?  Pie  traversed  rapidly  that  field  in 
a  sort  of  semicircle  from  north  to  south.  It  was 
sown  to  grass  which  had  not  been  mown  by  the 
late  farmer  and  was  in  parts  withered.  There 
was  no  trace  of  any  one  in  all  its  broad  acres 
until  he  came  to  its  south  verge.  Then  the  man 
started  back  as  from  a  blow  on  the  brain.  Yes ; 
there  indeed  was  a  trail  of  some  one  in  the  grass, 
running  down  by  the  woodside  towards  the  Well. 
How  the  dry,  bent  grass-stalks  glistened  along 
that  trail  shimmering  in  the  sunshine  as  he 
looked.  He  followed  it.  At  the  end  of  it  a  pair 
of  bars  stood  against  the  woods  and  had  not  been 
let  down.  Edward  Vaughn  bent  over  the  bars 
and  searched  the  dry  wood  leaves  the  other  side. 
Some  were  fresh  broken  or  upturned  as  if  stepped 


At  Indian  Well.  355 

on.  Indeed  the  trail  grew  fresher  every  moment. 
He  followed  rapidly,  and  he  knew  was  nearing  the 
Well.  A  rough  jangle  of  rocks  lay  just  before  him 
on  that  crest,  where,  below,  the  waters  of  the  sim- 
ple stream  were  pouring  themselves  into  its  gran- 
ite basin.  Yet  the  trail  led  thither.  He  climbed 
the  crest  and  strove  to  look  down  the  slope  under 
the  trees.  There  was  nothing  human  visible. 
"  Ten  rods  below  there  is  the  Well,"  he  said  to 
himself,  "and  no  human  creature  could  go  far 
down  this  way  and  live.  I  will  search  in  the 
ravine  below."  So  he  swung  round  to  his  left 
and  went  down,  his  soul  in  a  very  rage  of  will  to 
find,  perhaps  save.  From  what?  Had  he  saved  ? 
The  glen  was  a  rock  chaos,  mostly.  But  before 
he  reached  it,  in  his  passionate  rush  among  the 
boulders,  he  heard  the  sound  of  a  human  voice. 
He  halted  and  listened.  It  seemed  one  was  sing- 
ing, with  fitful  intervals  of  silence,  what  he  could 
not  make  out.  It  sounded  like  a  chant  in  a  man's 
voice.  He  broke  through  the  dividing  forest  to 
the  stream  bed  a  hundred  feet  or  so  from  where  it 
leaves  the  Well.  Just  below  him  a  man  stood  or 
rather  moved  in  a  very  ecstasy  of  laboring  at 
somewhat.  It  was  Red  Beard.  As  he  moved  or 
rather  sprang  at  his  task,  the  leaf  shadows  fleck- 
ing his  gaunt  figure,  and  anon  the  sun  shining  into 
and  through  his  hair  tremulous  with  the  wind  and 
the  man's  passion,  whatever  it  might  turn  out  to 


356  At  Indian  Well. 

be,  gave  him  certainly  a  most  ghostly  and  uncanny 
look,  as  of  one  in  a  rage  or  delirious.  It  did  not 
take  long  for  Edward  Vaughn  to  assure  himself 
that  he  had  gone  stark  mad  and  was  in  a  violent 
mood.  It  was  strange  work  he  was  at.  In  the 
centre  of  the  stream  bed  where  he  was  the  rocks 
had  piled  themselves  together  into  a  sort  of  irreg- 
ular pyramid,  but  flat  at  the  top.  Here  the  man, 
with  much  industry,  had  gathered  the  driftwood 
of  the  stream  and  the  broken  branches  into 
some  sort  of  pyre  or  altar,  and  when  Vaughn 
came  had  just  fired  the  same,  as  he  stood 
below  and  was  watching  the  flame.  And  as 
the  fire  rose  red  through  the  trees,  crackling 
and  champing  at  its  food,  or  the  red  embers  and 
half-burnt  logs  fell  down  upon  the  sand,  this  Red 
Beard  was  replacing  them  above  or  adding  new 
fuel,  all  in  an  ecstatic  fashion,  and  singing,  as  has 
been  noted.  Occasionally  he  would  kneel  as  if 
•making  prayers. 

Vaughn  watched  him  long  enough  to  know 
that  there  might  be  danger  in  him,  and  that  a 
crazed  brain  is  very  uncertain  in  its  fellowship. 
Yet  he  was  confronting  a  greater  danger  all  that 
morning  and  he  was  here  to  go  on  in  his  search. 
So  he  called  to  him  quietly  and  by  name. 

The  priest,  or  whatever  he  fancied  himself, 
turned  starply  at  the  voice  and  looked.  Then  a 
shudder  seemed  to  pass  over  him,  and  he  looked 


At  Indian  Well  357 

on  and  on  without  words.  Finally  he  stretched 
out  two  hands  in  a  half-beseeching  fashion,  and 
kept  them  there  until  he  said  in  the  old  chanting 
way,  as  at  the  wedding,  "  Come  to  me,  and  I  will 
give  you  rest."  Vaughn  went  to  him  with  his 
offered  hand,  which  he  took  no  notice  of,  but  said 
in  the  same  weird  tones,  "I  am  glad  that  you 
have  come.  I  wanted  you." 

What  followed  then  at  that  fire  waxing  hotter 
and  higher  in  that  summer's  day  could  never  be 
put  in  words.  Edward  Vaughn  always  said  so  in 
after  years.  The  man  was  crazed  in  that  way 
that  moments  of  reason  were  always  showing 
through  the  madness,  as  the  sand  crests  on  the 
coast  show  an  eye's-blink  through  the  over  but 
receding  billows.  It  was  madness  allied  with 
wit,  and  therefore,  as  Vaughn  saw,  possibly  more 
dangerous.  As  far  as  Vaughn  could  make  out, 
it  was  the  old  story  of  his  religious  craze  —  the 
Great  White  Throne  had  come  and  the  world  was 
burning  up  with  fire.  Only  it  was  uncertain 
whether  he  fancied  himself  Him  that  sat  on  it, 
or  a  priest  of  His  to  offer  a  sacrifice  of  propitia- 
tion for  the  world's  sins.  Some  people  after, 
hearing  the  tale  as  Vaughn  told  it,  thought  that 
his  unstrung  mind,  shocked  by  what  it  had  acci- 
dentally found  at  an  earlier  hour  of  the  day  at 
the  Well,  had  entirely  broken,  and  that  he  had  in 
some  vague  way  built  this  as  the  funeral  pyre  for 


358  At  Indian  Well. 

the  dead,  or  perhaps  to  offer  in  flame  a  sacrifice, 
such  as,  after,  Edward  Vaughn  shuddered  to 
think  of. 

Yet  he  humored  the  dangerous,  powerful  luna- 
tic beside  him  as  best  he  could,  listening,  and 
answering,  with  all  the  courtesy  and  tact  he  knew, 
his  vagrant  words,  and  even  helped  him  with  his 
oft-replenished  fire.  He  said,  after,  that  these 
moments  were  ages  he  had  spent  in  hell  for  his 
most  mortal  sins,  so  ghastly  were  they  with  the 
storm  of  his  own  agony  confronting  and  mingling 
with  the  rage  of  the  mad.  Yet  he  had  collected 
himself  as  a  man  does  just  before  his  word  which 
will  unlock  the  thunder  of  the  battle.  So  he 
said  coolly,  in  an  interval  of  the  madness,  "  Have 
you  seen  anything  of  a  young  woman  about  here 
to-day  ?  "  The  man  bent  his  head  as  if  trying  to 
recall  something  which  his  mind  was  only  able  to 
snatch  at ;  and  at  last,  by  a  supreme  effort,  as  the 
clouds  covered  again,  said,  "  Yes,  she  was  young ; 
yes,  beautiful  —  in  white  robes — and  has  gone 
away."  And  then  at  once  the  fit  was  on  him  and 
he  raved.  Vaughn  waited  for  the  paroxysm  to  end 
itself,  and  then  went  to  him  and  took  him  gently 
by  the  arm.  "  Come  now,  my  man,  and  show  me 
where  the  lady  is."  Apparently  the  words  had 
touched  his  sanity,  for  he  said  slowly,  "Come 
with  me  and  I  will  show."  Then  he  relapsed 
into  the  old  jargon.  Yet  the  movement  of  the 


At  Indian  Well.  359 

two  had  begun  up  and  towards  the  Well,  and  hand 
on  shoulder  they  went  over  the  stony  stream  bed 
and  even  in  its  very  flow  —  the  dazed  man  as  if 
led,  and  yet  half-guiding, —  until  they  came  to 
the  little  sand  plateau  which  the  waters  had 
thrown  up  in  freshets  as  they  flowed  from  the 
Well.  There  they  halted,  the  man  limp  and  dazed 
as  if  exhausted.  "  Where  now,  Red  Beard,  will 
wre  go  for  the  lady?  Come,  brace  up  now,  and 
show."  He  roused  again  to  his  semi-reason  and 
gazed  eagerly  in  the  speaker's  face,  saying  "  Come 
and  see ; "  and  as  he  spoke  Vaughn  saw  his  mad- 
ness crouching  at  the  heels  of  his  words.  "  Come," 
he  said,  and  as  he  spoke  his  right  arm  moved  itself 
even  gently  round  Vaughn's  waist  till  it  felt  as 
a  full  circle  there,  and  then  still  creeping  on  and 
in  until  the  arm  felt  like  an  iron  band  crushing 
out  the  lite.  "  See,"  and  in  a  whirl  the  two  men 
stood  on  the  verge  of  the  Well,  looking  down 
into  its  waters,  green  with  their  very  depth  and 
purity.  In  the  madman's  grasp,  and  his  gaze 
could  neither  have  been  long  or  steady,  but 
Edward  Vaughn  looked  long  enough  to  see  under 
the  gurgling  waters,  where  they  touched  the 
shallower  sands,  a  hand  and  part  of  an  arm  —  a 
hand  stretched  out  and  up  as  if  beckoning  — 
a  little  hand  —  a  woman's.  He  would  have 
known  those  finger  tips,  he  thought,  over  the 
world. 


360  At  Indian  Well 

The  madman  also,  roused  by  something  he  saw, 
broke  into  fresh  fury.  "  See,  there  —  there  is  the 
sacrifice.  Let  us  descend  into  the  very  tomb  for 
it.  You  and  I  must  fetch  it.  Come,"  and  he 
was  dragging  Vaughn  towards  the  waters.  His 
clutch  had  the  sane  man  at  advantage,  and  there 
was  instant  danger.  Yet,  cool  as  ice,  Vaughn 
had  wit  to  say  quietly,  and  to  humor  that  mad- 
ness he  could  not  quell,  "  Yes,  but  before  the 
sacrifice  comes  the  prayer.  Why  don't  you  pray 
now?  you  the  priest,  and  then  I'll  help."  The 
man  seemed  to  fall  again  into  the  old  mental 
lassitude  and  confusion  of  a  mind  which  could 
not  recollect  itself,  and  unloosed  his  grasp  as  if 
trying  to  think.  Edward  Vaughn  stepped  back 
so  as  to  put  the  man  between  him  and  the  Well, 
and  waited.  There  was  death  about,  and  he 
would  fain  live. 

"No,"  said  the  man  suddenly,  and  turning 
sharply  to  find  Vaughn  behind  him.  "There 
shall  be  no  prayers  but  at  the  altar.  No,  I  say, 
let  us  go  down  and  find  the  sacrifice." 

"  I'll  not  go,  Red  Beard,  unless  after  prayers," 
was  the  cold,  quiet  answer. 

Then  Red  Beard  sprung  at  him,  towering,  swift, 
and  raging.  There  was  perhaps  twelve  feet  of 
strand;  and  around  were  rocks.  Vaughn  saw 
him  coming  and  stood  out  amid,  with  feet  firm 
under  him,  and  eyes  that  gleamed  cold  light,  as  of 


At  Indian  Well  361 

one  who  meant  not  to  submit  to  die.  The  mad- 
man clenched  him  firm  and  strong,  but  Vaughn's 
arms  this  time  were  under,  and  they  strove 
there  without  words.  The  sane  man  had  an  old 
skill  in  wrestle  and  a  cool  brain,  but  the  other 
had  muscles  of  iron.  So,  often  in  the  paroxysm 
of  his  madness  he  lifted  Edward  Vaughn  as  a 
child  and  shook  him  as  a  very  reed  in  his  hand. 
It  was  only  moments,  though  it  seemed  hours  to 
one.  His  brain  was  cool,  yet  his  left  arm  had 
been  lately  set,  and  he  was  clearly  overmatched  in 
muscle.  So  he  put  brain  into  his  lack  and  in  the 
bitterest  passages  kept  quiet  and  suffered  violence, 
not  wasting  his  strength.  Yet  that  strength  was 
ebbing,  and  the  madman  at  his  throat.  Yet  he 
held  his  reason  still.  In  the  old  days  he  had 
known  a  lock  in  wrestling,  which  if  it  fail  is  fatal, 
but  when  well  done  conquers.  It  was  his  only 
chance,  and  he  waited  for  it.  It  came  when  his 
man  slipped  a  trifle  on  a  stone.  Quick  as  a  flash, 
with  his  whole  weight-  gone  into  the  spring,  he 
locked  with  him  in  a  burst  of  physical  will  and 
rage  greater  than  any  and  threw  him  senseless 
and  quivering  upon  the  rocks  below.  It  was  fate 
that  Edward  Vaughn  should  live. 

He  went  down  to  the  man,  of  late  so  danger- 
ous. He  felt  the  pulses  —  still  there,  but  flicker- 
ing. Then  he  lifted  and  laid  him  upon  the  sand 
where  they  had  struggled,  arid  bathed  the  face 


362  At  Indian  Well 

in  water  out  of  the  stream.  So  after  awhile  the 
man  came  slowly  back  to  consciousness  —  that  is, 
madness.  "I  must  leave  you  here  awhile,  my 
poor  fellow,"  Vaughn  said,  "  where  nobody  will 
hurt  you  and  you  will  hurt  no  one."  So  he  took 
off  the  great  woollen  comforter  which  the  man 
always  wore,  and  bound  his  hands  and  feet  and 
laid  him,  unresisting,  carefully  down.  I  shall  be 
back  presently,  my  man." 

So  Edward  Vaughn  went  back  sturdily  toward 
town.  "  The  lady  is  found,"  he  said  to  Farmer 
Jones  at  his  gate.  "It  is  a  sad  business.  Keep 
your  horse  harnessed ;  they  will  want  your  help 
later  on."  Then  he  rode  straight  into  town  to 
the  Mayor's  office,  and  told  briefly  the  catastrophe 
at  Indian  Well.  Next  he  went  to  the  rectory  and 
told  Mr.  Ardenne.  "You  must  go  and  break  the 
news  to  the  Seatons.  I  cannot  go  there." 

In  her  brave  struggle  with  Edward  Vaughn 
Isabel  Seaton  had  said  that  water  was  life.  Was 
it  so  at  the  Well  ? 

And  there  are  those  who  offer  prayers  for  the 
dead. 


CHAPTER     XXXI. 

FLOTSAM  AND  JETSAM. 

IN  due  time  the  earth  covered  in  Aubrey  Par- 
ish ;  but  there  was  that  still  living  which  it  could 
not  cover.  Of  course  many  things  were  said 
about  the  sad  catastrophe,  a  few  with  charity. 
Indeed,  it  was  stoutly  affirmed  by  some  that  Miss 
Seaton's  death  was  purely  accidental,  and  that  in 
some  unaccountable  daze  she  had  wandered  away 
among  the  rocks  and  fallen  over  the  precipice  at 
Indian  Well.  In  reply  it  was  pointed  out  that 
there  were  no  bruises  such  as  might  come  with 
such  a  fall.  Yet  the  many  words  lapsed  into  that 
silence  in  which  the  great  world  goes  eager  to  its 
old  wish  and  work  and  the  dead  sleep  so  long. 

But  not  so  with  one  man,  at  least,  in  that 
town,  whose  soul  was  hearing  sad,  sharp,  ghostly 
words,  and  that  too  not  from  comrades  whom  he 
might  forsake,  but  from  himself  whom  he  could 
not  evade.  The  torrent  caught  by  crags  is  apt 
to  be  cruel,  and  Edward  Vaughn's  life  was  in 
straits.  In  the  days  which  followed,  long,  and 
bare  of  verdure  and  of  sunshine,  he  too  found  the 
desert  and  how  bitter  life  is  in  that  land  which 


364  Flotsam  and  Jetsam. 

has  no  living  waters.  In  the  reaction  which 
followed  that  stormy  outburst  of  his  will,  which 
drove  him  to  the  very  feet  of  Death  at  Indian 
Well,  conscience  came  to  her  throne  once  more 
and  gave  decrees.  She  came  up  through  the 
stony  rifts  of  Edward  Vaughn's  nature,  such  as 
life  had  made  it,  from  a  realm  where  the  child- 
hood of  him  had  once  dwelt,  up  through  the  dry 
leaves  and  ashes  of  his  worldly  habit,  arid  made 
challenge  to  be  heard,  even  though  his  sun  were 
darkened  and  his  moon  turned  into  blood.  His 
will  obeyed  this  time  one  who  is  the  queen  of 
glory  to  us  mortals. 

It  may  well  be  doubted  whether  at  any  time 
Edward  Vaughn's  brain  had  touched  firmly  the 
fact  of  Isabel  Seaton's  passion.  And  if  it  ap- 
proached to  do  so,  there  was  manhood  enough  in 
him  (so  strangely  mixed  are  such  men's  natures) 
to  have  taken  alarm  as  at  a  suggested  wrong  to 
be  done  the  defenceless  dead,  and  to  reject  in  his 
pride  the  ungenerous  supposition.  Yet  enough 
remained  to  give  him  great  hurt.  With  us  men, 
the  grave,  which  is  so  dark,  casts  back  a  strange 
light  upon  our  past  words  and  deeds,  so  that  we 
seem  to  be  weighing  them  in  the  scales  of  another 
world  than  this  where  we  err  and  wound  so  often. 
Regrets,  when  there  is  no  longer  voice  to  forgive, 
are  long  and  sore.  So  for  days  and  days,  longer 
than  we  may  care  to  count,  Edward  Vaughn 


Flotsam  and  Jetsam.  365 

endured  a  great  human  penitence  beyond  words. 
It  was  penitence  for  his  own  wreck.  He  had  lost 
himself.  When  Blanche  De  Forest  had  made 
shipwreck  of  his  love,  his  honor  was  still  left. 
And  if,  in  after  years,  he  had  grown  sinister  or 
hard  towards  the  world,  he  had  yet  managed  to  be 
just  and  upright  in  its  affairs.  But  now  he  felt 
that  he  had  wronged,  and  deeply  wronged,  Isabel 
Seaton,  and  that  too  by  an  insincerity  unworthy  a 
just  man.  He  had  indeed  even  lost  the  right  to 
accuse  Blanche  De  Forest.  That  very  justice  in 
whose  name  he  blamed  her  he  had  denied  another. 
The  maniac  who  lay  bound  and  trembling  before 
him  at  Indian  Well  was  indeed  a  wreck.  But 
measured  by  the  higher  law  of  his  higher  station 
was  he  himself  less  so? 

So  when  his  conscience,  that  is,  his  soul  on  its 
side  of  virtue,  led  him  into  the  Temple  of  Recti- 
tude and  set  him  before  the  great,  white  statue  of 
Duty,  in  that  ghostly  presence,  with  a  bitterness 
which  little  men  never  know,  he  confessed  that  so 
far  in  this  life  he  was  the  unworthy. 


CHAPTER    XXXII. 

SIK   CHAUNCEY  DE  VERE   AGAIN. 

SIR  CHAUNCEY,  as  guardian  of  Helen  De  Vere, 
held  high  court  once  more  in  Florence.  If  we 
should  mistake  him  for  a  just  man  come  to  the 
woolsack  to  mete  out  righteousness,  we  should  call 
it  his  last  assize.  Anyhow,  he  was  working  late. 
Sir  Chauncey  was  not  young  when  he  made  his 
first  bow  in  this  story,  and  that  was  ten  years  ago. 
Besides,  these  years  had  subtracted  no  penalty 
due  from  those  gone  before.  They  had  rather 
added.  Pleasures  like  his  are  sure  to  become  a 
man's  later  pains.  So  while  for  more  than  half 
a  century  they  had  graven,  year  by  year,  their 
legend  in  the  heavy  face  lines  and  the  obesity  of  a 
man,  fat-fed,  blushing  vermilion  and  yellow  over 
all  their  handiwork,  they  also  found  their  way 
down  where  life  was,  and,  first  making  turbid, 
next  dried  up,  the  vital  forces.  Old  age,  indeed, 
is  a  judgment  day  for  the  mortal  in  us,  and  the 
body  is  the  court  record.  Our  immortality  pleads 
at  another  bar  somewhat  later  on. 

In  plainer  words,  Sir  Chauncey  was  fading  out ; 
slowly  indeed,  but  yet  dying.  This  he  knew,  but 


Sir  Chauncey  De   Vere  again.  367 

took  nobody  else  into  his  confidence.  Vice  at  the 
end  is  apt  to  be  solitary,  and  he  had  neither 
wished  friends  nor  made  them.  It  was  on  the 
cards,  he  said  to  himself,  to  die  sometime,  and  all 
he  had  to  do  when  the  winning  card  lay  on  the 
table  against  him  was  to  yield  his  hand.  He  was 
nowise  afraid  to  die,  because  he  had  never  been 
afraid  to  live  as  he  had;  but  the  circumstance 
of  his  future  did  not  seem  to  him  either  well- 
bred  or  pleasing.  There  would  be  an  awkward 
uncertainty  about  his  dinners,  and  the  valetship, 
especially  of  worms,  looked  a  trifle  vulgar.  There 
was  also  just  a  semitone  of  conscience,  or  at  least 
of  the  dust  of  a  dead  one,  which  made  itself  heard 
on  the  frontiers  of  meditation.  At  any  rate  it 
was  time  to  set  his  house  in  order,  and  he  went 
about  it. 

When  he  was  well-nigh  through,  he  was  pleased 
to  call  for  Helen  De  Vere  to  assist.  It  was  the 
same  house,  and  indeed  the  same  room,  to  which 
Sir  Chauncey  had  wandered  back,  and  where,  five 
years  before,  his  niece  had  spoken  her  "  No " 
against  Sir  John  English.  Curiously  enough,  in 
a  world  where  we  say  things  happen,  it  turned 
out,  as  Helen  after  found,  the  very  day  on  which 
Frederic  Ardenne  had  gone  to  the  Seaton's, 
striving  to  comfort.  She  remembered  the  details 
of  the  day  itself  long  after  —  the  yellow,  Italian 
sunshine  in  the  square  outside,  and  the  stifling 


368  Sir   Chauncey  De    Vere  again. 

midsummer  air  within  doors  —  yes,  and  the  great, 
gloomy  room,  with  its  sombre  but  stately  furniture, 
into  which  the  servant  ushered  her.  Sir  Chauncey, 
and  his  valet  had  dressed  him  carefully  that  morn- 
ing, though  they  were  an  hour  at  it ;  and  when 
Helen  came  in  he  was  seated  in  his  easy  chair  by 
his  table,  on  which  was  a  litter  of  papers.  Then, 
with  an  unwonted  courtesy,  he  proceeded  to  rise 
and  receive  her.  It  was  long  to  rise,  as  of  a  man 
under  a  load  clutching  at  an  invisible  staff  to  prop 
him  up,  but  neither  servant  nor  woman  dared  to 
help,  so  proud  was  his  weakness  to  conceal  itself, 
nor  did  Helen  venture  to  offer  sympathy,  lest  it 
should  be  rejected  harshly  by  the  man  in  full  toi- 
lette. Once  on  his  feet,  and  they  well  under  him, 
as  when  one  doubts  his  standing-power,  he  said  to 
the  valet,  "  You  may  go  outside,  and  come  at  the 
bell,"  and  to  the  niece,  with  a  gesture  not  lacking 
grace,  "  Sit  in  this  chair  near  me ;  I  wish  to  speak 
with  you."  Then  both  sat  down,  the  man,  as  he 
rose  up,  with  caution.  When  Helen  recalled  that 
face  in  after  years,  it  was  as  if  she  saw  the  charnel- 
house.  The  world  —  Sir  Chauncey's  world  —  was 
in  it,  and  at  its  sunset. 

"  There  are  two  papers,  Miss  De  Vere,"  he  said 
slowly,  halting  between  the  words,  "  on  that  table. 
Bring  me  the  one  on  top  —  the  one  with  the  red 
tape  round  it."  He  took  the  paper  and  said, 
opening  it  with  deliberation :  "•  Here  you  will  find 


Sir  Chauncey  De   Vere  again.  369 

an  inventory  of  your  property  now  in  my  hands 
and  a  statement  of  my  account  as  guardian.  Most 
of  your  money  is  in  the  funds  deposited  in  the 
Bank  of  England.  There  is  about  a  third  more 
than  when  I  had  it.  I  wish  you  to  give  me  a 
release,  and  take  your  own.  But  before  doing  it, 
I  advise  you  to  see  the  lawyers  and  go  over  the 
schedule.  That  is  business." 

"  But  why,  Uncle,  trouble  yourself  about  this 
matter?"  Helen  said  gently. 

"  Because,  my  child  "  (here  followed  something 
indistinct,  as  if  the  throat  muscles  had  contracted 
and  refused  their  service)  —  "  because,  my  child  " 
(and  now  he  spoke  plainly),  "I  wish  it."  For 
the  first  and  last  time  in  all  his  life,  he  had  said, 
"My  child." 

The  pathos  was  not  that  he  had  no  heir,  but 
that  his  life  had  long  since  shut  against  his  soul 
the  golden  gates  of  childhood. 

Having  said  thus  much  he  relapsed,  it  may  be, 
into  mere  thought  again.  Sir  Chauncey  had  lost 
the  ethics  while  he  retained  the  mathematics  of  a 
conscience.  Exact  in  business  all  his  life,  to  the 
smallest  bet  he  ever  made,  it  was  not  her  right, 
but  his  own  habit,  which  led  him  to  account  for 
the  last  farthing  due. 

"  There  is  one  other  thing,"  he  said,  after  a 
while,  with  a  preliminary  clutch  at  his  throat  as 
though  something  caught  him  there,  "  I  wish  to 


370  Sir  Chauncey  De    Vere  again. 

mention.  Bring  me  that  sealed  envelope  which 
lay  under  the  other  paper." 

It  was  brought.  He  broke  the  seal  and  took 
out  a  document,  opened  it,  seemed  to  go  over 
it  page  by  page  and  at  last  refolded  it  and  held 
it  in  a  hand  which  did  not  tremble. 

"  This  is  my  will,  made  lately  here.  I  have 
left  my  property  to  you.  The  total  is  something 
more  than  your  estate,  land  in  part  and  London 
houses,  well  insured  and  let.  The  income  will 
buy  your  ribbons,  and  I  advise  you  to  sell  the 
land.  No  woman  should  hold  land,  it  is  too 
troublesome ;  and,  mark  me,  lend  money  only  on 
an  English  bond.  Do  you  hear  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Uncle  ;  you  are  very  kind.  But  why 
not  give  your  estate  to  your  sister  instead  of 
me?" 

"  My  sister  is  growing  old  and  I  wish  you  to 
have  it.  I  settle  that  matter  my  way.  But,  I 
make  only  one  condition.  I  want  your  pro- 
mise." 

"What  promise,  Uncle?"  and  for  the  first  time 
in  the  interview  she  remembered  how  the  man 
before  her  was  strangely,  yes,  cruelly,  persistent, 
Her  soul  watched  now  open-eyed.  Sir  Chauncey 
bent  forward  from  his  chair,  with  both  hands 
grasping  the  table,  until  his  outstretched  head 
came  low  before  her,  as  if  half  in  supplication, 
and  then  the  gray  eyes,  with  a  cold  gleam  as 


Sir   Chauncey  De    Vere  again.  371 

of  polished  steel,  seemed  to  be  cutting  their  way 
into  her  still  unspoken  secret. 

"  Will  you  promise  me  that  you  will  never 
marry  that  man?  I  mean  that  priest,  Ardenne." 
He  who  could  not  win  by  violence  would  bribe 
his  victory,  then. 

"Do  not  ask  me  to  promise  that,  Uncle.  I 
have  obeyed  you  long  and  silently.  Have  mercy, 
Uncle." 

"  Mercy  !  s-s-s-s-t !  "  —  his  words  fairly  hissed ; 
"you  love  him  then, —  this  Ardenne?" 

"Yes,  Uncle." 

"  Will  you  give  him  up  ?  " 

This  time,  both  for  Sir  Chauncey's  health  and 
because  her  life  abode  where  love  had  long  shut 
the  door  against  either  storm  or  frost,  and  where 
the  sun  never  set,  she  answered  with  a  gentleness 
of  voice,  as  if  from  far  away,  "  No,  Uncle,  I  can 
never  promise  you  that." 

The  man  glared  at  her  with  the  cold  steel  eyes, 
and  long.  Then  slowly  he  recovered  himself  back 
in  his  chair. 

"  At  least  oblige  me,  then,  by  touching  that  bell 
before  you,"  was  all  he  said. 

The  man  came  to  the  bell,  and  at  Sir  Chaun- 
cey's side.  "  Bend  down  your  head,  man,"  and  he 
whispered  something  in  his  ear.  It  was,  "  Bring 
me  here  the  notary.  Quick  ! " 

Then  to  Helen  De  Vere  he  said,  with  a  stately 


372  Sir  Chauncey  De   Vere  again. 

coldness,  not  usual  in  him,  "You  may  go  now, 
Miss  De  Vere.  You  do  not  please  me."  She 
bowed  and  went  with  no  more  words. 

What  after  happened  in  that  room,  before  the 
living  opened  the  door  she  shut  behind  her,  was 
to  be  guessed  at  chiefly.  Sir  Chauncey  had  made 
a  will  and  a  mistake,  and  meant  to  rectify  both. 
The  mistake  was  that  he  had  not  put  the  condi- 
tion, which  Helen  would  not  accept,  into  the  will 
itself.  Perhaps  his  malice  nodded,  or  perhaps  it 
was  a  providence.  At  least  he  took  his  chances, 
and  they  had  gone  against  him.  A  new  will 
would  remedy  all.  The  rest  was  conjecture. 
Something  kept  telling  Sir  Chauncey  that  his 
sands  were  running  low.  The  will  in  his  hand  was 
wrong,  and  the  notary  might  come  late.  He  had 
managed,  somehow,  to  walk  or  crawl  to  the  further 
end  of  the  table,  where  was  a  taper.  He  lighted 
it,  and  then  holding  the  will  to  its  flame  tried  to 
burn  it.  But  the  sands  were  running  very  low, 
and  malice  is  not  so  strong  as  death.  When  his 
door  opened  to  the  notary,  they  found  him  prone 
and  stiff,  the  will  beside  him,  with  its  burnt 
edges,  and  the  lighted  taper  waiting.  The  first 
two  pages  of  the  will  were  a  trifle  torn,  as  if,  de- 
spairing of  the  flame  as  the  last  agony  came  on,  he 
would  fain  try  to  rend  some  one's  happiness. 

Sir  Chauncey's  life  had  been  consistent,  yet  its 
harmony  was  not,  to  say  the  least,  celestial,  and 


Sir  Chauncey  De   Vere  again.  373 

brought  good  to  none.  The  soldier  who  had  won 
his  bride  away  from  him  had  slept  long  upon  his 
bed  of  fame,  and  Sir  Chauncey  to  his  last  gasp 
plotted  revenge.  His  rage  against  the  dead,  so 
cruel  to  the  living,  closed  his  eyelids. 


CHAPTER     XXXIII. 

LIBERTY   AT   LAST. 

THERE  are  times  in  the  life  of  most  of  us  when 
our  heart  and  our  conscience  maintain  a  sad  strife 
between  them.  This  happens  to  the  sincere  when 
they  have  deeply  loved  another  who  has  proved 
unworthy.  Then,  after  a  bitter  struggle,  our  con- 
science gives  its  unswerving  verdict,  while  the 
heart  submits  weeping.  There  is  indeed  the 
ancient  epigram,  "  Nihil  de  mortuis  nisi  bonum  ;  " 
but  then  it  is  a  heathen  sentiment,  as  the  Latin 
shows.  Indeed,  as  usually  spoken,  it  is  the  device 
of  cowardice  to  veil  shame  in  its  grave.  Perhaps 
the  Christian  epigram  would  read,  "Nothing  of 
living  or  dead  but  truth." 

If  this  be  so,  Helen  De  Vere  now  followed  the 
higher  ethics.  She  reviewed  again  Sir  Chauncey's 
life,  as  she  had  seen  or  felt  its  quality,  and  in  all 
her  woman's  charity,  much  as  she  wished  it  other- 
wise, she  could  not  find  in  her  memory  a  resting- 
place  for  love.  Yet  in  the  silence  of  Sir  Chaun- 
cey's sleep  she  heard  the  ringing  bells  of  her  own 
release  sounding  in  the  new  sunshine.  Men  tell 
of  prisoners  so  wonted  to  their  chains  that  they 


Liberty  at  Last.  375 

sorely  miss  their  clank,  when  broken.  The  bird 
let  from  his  cage  may  try  a  turn  or  two  above  the 
library  shelves,  but  he  soon  comes  back  with 
weary  wing  to  his  old  prison.  The  world  is  too 
wide  for  his  weakness.  Not  so  with  Helen  De 
Vere.  For  her  the  granite  walls  had  crumbled, 
and  her  soul  rose  up  to  bathe  itself  in  the  new 
freedom. 

Sir  Chauncey  had  willed  to  be  buried  where  he 
died ;  and  after  his  solemnities  the  two  women 
prepared  to  go.  There  were  boxes  of  bric-a-brac 
and  trunks  to  be  packed ;  but  Helen,  as  the 
younger,  stood  forth  sturdily  until  all  was  done. 
It  was  hardly  a  week  at  most  before  she  was 
leaving  Florence  for  her  home.  But  where  was 
that  ?  It  was  too  far  away  just  now  for  much 
impatience  ;  but  the  diligence  over  the  pass  was 
slow  and  the  iron  wheels  were  laggard  to  Helen's 
heart,  as  the  two  women  fared  across  the  Conti- 
nent. In  London,  too,  great,  smoky,  busy,  lonely 
London,  Helen  met  weeks  of  law  courts  and 
lawyers  on  every  hand,  all  ready  to  assist  her  with 
delays  and  fees.  Sir  Chauncey's  stewardship  was 
clean,  however,  wherever  she  met  it,  and  her 
prompt,  curt,  business  ways  surprised  her  lawyers 
who  did  not  know  her  secret.  It  was  with  a 
buoyant  heart,  then,  after  weeks  of  business,  that 
she  flung  off  London ;  and  her  psalm  of  life,  so 
tender,  so  grateful,  and  so  full  of  hope,  which  was 


376  Liberty  at  Last. 

singing  itself  in  all  her  waking  hours,  rose  into  a 
peean  almost  as  the  train  swung  into  Chester, 
though  its  iron  wheels  did  not  hear  the  joy.  It 
was  yellow  autumn  sunshine  on  the  old  houses, 
which  seemed  more  sere  and  wrinkled  than  ever. 
Once  in  her  hotel,  and  she  forthwith  prepared 
to  leave  it,  to  the  disgust  of  the  portly  waiter 
suggesting  dinner. 

"I  shall  be  back,  Auntie,  by-and-by.  I  know 
Chester  streets,  and  am  going  on  a  little  business." 
So  she  went  to  the  Cathedral  Close.  The  dingy 
brick  houses  were  as  reticent  and  formal  as  of  old, 
but  new  children  were  at  their  plays,  and  the  faces 
she  met  were  strange.  "  Ten  years  have  erased 
much,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  and  yet  I  am  here 
again  as  of  old."  Was  she?  Ten  years  of  a 
woman's  life  like  hers  had  made  her  vastly  more. 
The  very  love  that  urged  on  her  footsteps  was 
saintlier. 

She  rang  the  bell  of  the  clergy  house  and  sent 
in  her  card  to  any  one  of  the  clergy,  as  she  told 
the  servant.  The  man  who  came  to  her  happened 
to  be  a  middle-aged,  pragmatic  Englishman,  far 
gone,  it  may  be  told,  in  bachelorhood,  who,  hold- 
ing her  card  in  hand,  was  pleased  to  say,  leisurely, 
overlooking  the  fresh-colored  countrywoman  be- 
fore him,  "  Yes,  Miss  De  Vere ;  a  stranger  here,  I 
fancy.  In  what  can  I  serve  you,  madam  ? 

Miss  Helen  had  lately  completed  her  business 


Liberty  at  Last.  377 

education  among  the  London  lawyers.  So  she 
said  at  once,  "Have  you  a  list  of  the  American 
clergy  ?  I  wish  to  find  the  name  of  the  Rev.  Frederic 
Ardenne." 

"  Ardenne !  Ardenne  !  it  seems  as  if  I  had  heard 
that  name  in  Chester,  possibly  on  the  Cathedral 
books,"  the  man  half-mused  to  himself. 

"  Yes,  both  he  and  his  uncle  were  here  as  clergy- 
men ; "  and  her  loyal  heart  wondered  how  soon  the 
world  forgets.  "But  have  you  the  list  I  asked 
for?" 

"A  thousand  pardons,  madam,  I  think  we  have. 
If  you  will  please  come  to  the  library  I  will  look." 
So  Helen  sat  down,  while  the  man  searched  leisurely 
among  the  library  shelves — an  age  or  two,  as  it 
seemed  to  her  heart.  Finally  he  came  back  with 
a  thin  little  pamphlet.  "  Here  is  the  list,  and  we 
will  look."  Helen  stood  beside  him  at  his  desk, 
while  he,  adjusting  his  eyeglass,  formally  inspected 
the  document,  unconscious  of  the  heart-beats  at 
his  elbow. 

"Ah!  yes,  here  we  have  it,  'Rev.  Frederic 
Ardenne,  Aubrey  Parish,  Diocese  of  Riverland.' " 
And  he  held  up  the  leaf  for  her  inspection. 
He  was  there,  then,  at  his  post,  as  he  had 
promised. 

"  And  please,  where  is  Riverland  ?  " 

"  Ah !  that  I  can't  say.  Perhaps  the  maps  will 
show.  Let  us  look  again;  "  and  he  rummaged  in 


378  Liberty  at  Last. 

the  alcoves,  bringing  back  a  handful  of  dusty 
maps. 

"  Yes,  here  it  is,  a  New  England  diocese,  with 
this  river  running  through  it.  Not  very  far  in 
the  wild,  you  see ;  one  of  their  oldest  dioceses, 
I  fancy,  in  the  new  civilization  westward.  Do 
you  know  any  one  there  ?  " 

"  Only  Mr.  Ardenne." 

"  Ah,  yes,  I  see  ; "  an  old  rector  of  yours,  per- 
haps." 

"I  am  engaged  to  be  his  wife,"  Helen  answered 
simply,  even  coldly. 

The  parson  rose  to  his  feet  and  looked  at  her. 
"  I  beg  pardon,  madam,  for  my  careless  question. 
Allow  me,"  he  added,  as  he  looked,  "  to  congratu- 
late^ him.  The  gentleman  himself  I  have  never 
seen." 

When  Helen  took  leave  with  thanks,  she  went 
straight  to  St.  John's.  There  was  no  one  in  the 
old  church  except  the  gray-haired  sexton,  and  she 
went  to  her  old  pew  to  make  her  prayers.  Curi- 
ously enough,  her  psalm  of  life  to-day  was  rising 
almost  fiercely,  so  far  as  her  gentleness  allowed, 
in  that  sinewy  song  of  the  Hebrew  priest : — 

"  Blessed  be  the  Lord  God  of  Israel,  for  he  hath 
visited  and  redeemed  his  people, 

"  And  hath  raised  up  an  horn  of  salvation  for  us 
in  the  house  of  his  servant  David ; 


Liberty  at  Last.  379 

"As  he  spake  by  the  mouth  of  his  holy  prophets, 
which  have  been  since  the  world  began  : 

"  That  we  should  be  saved  from  our  enemies  and 
from  the  hand  of  all  that  hate  us." 

Then  she  went  out  into  the  churchyard,  and  sat 
down  on  the  very  stone  where  ten  years  ago  her 
vows  had  been  made.  The  Saxon  king  in  the 
tower  was  keeping  his  watch  as  ever,  and  another 
King  Invisible  was  watching  His.  Life  there  among 
the  dead  was  mounting  high  in  Helen's  heart, 
throbbing  towards  peace  at  last.  The  sea  in  the 
west  was  wide ;  but  the  man  beyond  the  sea,  who 
once  sat  here  beside  her  in  a  sacramental  hour  of 
bliss,  had  not  changed,  and  she  was  free  ! 

She  stood  up  alone  among  the  graves  and  looked 
round  on  the  old  church  and  the  hills  and  the 
houses  of  the  town,  all  aglow  in  the  red  sunset. 
Let  the  night  cover  Chester  graves  and  the  old 
sorrows.  Her  new  life  was  in  the  West.  » 

There  is  a  curious  continuity,  perhaps  kinship, 
in  the  human  soul.  Blood  is  blood  red  in  every 
heart,  although  the  microscope  would  show  the 
white  and  red  corpuscles  to  differ  in  each,  while  the 
heart  varies  in  size  and  fibre.  So  the  passion  in 
Helen's  heart,  as  she  went  back  to  her  inn,  was 
strangely  like  that  of  the  Chaldean  maiden  of 
forty  ages  back,  sister  of  hers  in  constancy,  who 
answered  so  strong  and  maidenly  to  Abraham's 


380  Liberty  at  Last. 

servant,  "  I  will  go,"  and  left  her  kindred  to  dwell 
with  Isaac. 

She  came  home  to  Miss  Hannah  with  a  quick, 
eager  step. 

"I  have  just  telegraphed  for  our  state-rooms 
in  the  next  steamer  to  America,  Auntie.  He  is 
there" 


CHAPTER    XXXIV. 

THE   AGNOSTIC. 

WHEN  Edward  Vaughn  became  bankrupt  in 
self-respect,  among  his  personal  assets  was  a 
rather  thin  residuum  of  faith.  This,  too,  now  dis- 
appeared with  the  general  wreck.  His  religion  — 
that  which  bound  him  in  any  wise  to  the  super- 
natural—  had  been  at  best  a  mere  tradition, 
which  he  had  inherited  with  the  family  plate,  and 
now  simply  ceased  to  be.  If  in  Blanche  De 
Forest  he  had  lost  faith  in  human  kind,  and  his 
after-life  had  brought  no  recovery,  he  had  now 
lost  himself.  And  since,  at  the  core  of  his  being, 
below  the  wreck,  conscience  still  gave  out  a  flick- 
ering light  to  his  congested  reason,  the  new  pov- 
erty was  sore.  With  the  crass  cloud  over  his 
soul  he  could  know  naught  of  the  soul's  world 
which  some  men  still  call  God.  Besides,  he  had 
always  held  that  every  gentleman  should  have  a 
religion,  as  a  part  of  his  social  station,  and  the 
present  situation  was  not  well  bred.  To  go  at 
random  to  morning  service  on  pleasant  Sundays, 
and,  on  entering  church,  to  go  on  one's  knees  with 
one's  face  in  one's  hat  for  a  moment's  silent  prayer 


382  The  Agnostic. 

for  something  not  very  definite  was  not  a  difficult 
penance,  and  showed  decorum.  But  to  worship 
that  which  is  not,  is  at  least  to  mock  one's  self, 
and  add  another  lie  to  the  vast  aggregate. 

Edward  Vaughn's  agnosticism  was  not  from 
speculation,  as  some  men's  is,  nor  from  a  chronic 
baseness  of  life,  as  is  true  of  others,  but  from  the 
wreck  into  which  his  whole  life  had  fallen.  He 
had  often  wrestled  with  creatures  of  flesh  and 
blood,  and  was  ready  to  do  so  again.  But  to  face 
a  world  empty  of  God,  and  filled  full  to  its  lips 
with  dust  turning  to  ashes;  to  hear  in  men's 
voices  the  cry  of  apes  trooping  down  to  an  eternal 
sleep  ;  to  see  under  the  maid's  blush  of  beauty 
and  the  child's  smile  of  purity  only  the  gray  mould 
of  a  final  decay ;  in  short,  to  regard  human  life  in 
individuals  and  generations  as  a  vagabond  with- 
out a  master  or  a  leader,  stumbling  on  and  down 
to  the  shut  gates  of  the  Unknown  —  this  was  to 
deny  to  him  or  any  man  the  very  substances  of 
any  virtue  or  any  victory.  To  stand  on  the  edge 
of  an  abyss  a  mere  piece  of  matter  kneading  itself 
by  chance  into  no  one's  image,  and  to  confront  a 
universe  living  only  to  perish  daily,  perhaps  never 
gave  true  joy  to  any  one.  Certainly  not  to 
Edward  Vaughn.  The  very  muscle  of  all  endea- 
vor shrivelled  in  the  nightshade  of  the  world's 
nothingness. 

So  for  days  and  weeks  he  sat  down,  and  dwelt 


The  Agnostic.  383 

among  ruins,  with  his  soul  asking  for  only  a 
glimpse  of  something  that  lived  on,  and  was  for- 
ever; but  there  was  no  voice  nor  any  that  an- 
swered. Occasionally  he  found  his  way  to  the 
parish  church  as  an  experiment ;  but  the  words  of 
faith  sounded  to  him  like  the  jargon  of  an  un- 
known tongue.  God  had  disappeared ;  and  what 
was  left  ?  His  pride  bade  him  bear  his  own  bur- 
dens, and  so  he  faced  the  pang  of  his  agnosticism 
without  flinching  or  asking  aid.  But  one  day, 
under  his  strain,  an  impulse  sent  him  to  the  rec- 
tory. Curiosity  woke  in  him  to  ask  what  any- 
thing that  called  itself  Christianity  really  had  to 
say  for  itself.  The  rector  was  educated  and  a 
gentleman ;  and  how  could  anything  harm  an 
agnostic  ? 

In  the  rector's  comfortable  library  Edward 
Vaughn  went  at  once  to  his  business. 

"  I  would  like  to  say,  with  your  permission,  Mr. 
Ardenne,  not  in  the  way  of  a  confession  (for  I 
should  make  a  poor  penitent,  I  fancy),  nor  to  pro- 
voke argument,  that  of  late  things  have  grown 
rather  mixed  in  my  consciousness.  In  fact,  life  at 
its  roots  has  become  more  of  a  riddle  than  ever. 
I  don't  mean  to  say  that  I  believe  nothing.  I  do 
mean  to  say  that  I  should  be  glad  to  believe  some- 
thing. Will  you  do  me  the  favor  to  state  to  me 
the  grounds  on  which  men  like  you  — I  mean  edu- 
cated and  reasonable  men  —  base  what  is  called 
Christian  faith  ?  " 


384  The  Agnostic. 

"You  must  confess,"  the  other  said,  smiling, 
"that  your  question  is  a  very  broad  one.  Where 
shall  I  begin  ?  " 

"Anywhere." 

"Well,  then,  as  there  is  to  be  no  argument  — 
which,  as  between  men  well  matched,  is  apt  to  end 
with  itself,  —  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  inquire  with 
you,  and  give  you  whatsoever  help  lies  in  showing 
you  my  own  very  plain  position.  First  of  all,  as  a 
minister  of  this  Church,  I  accept  her  authority  as  a 
teaching  Church,  and  take  her  creeds  for  mine  as 
statements  of  the  faith  I  am  bound  to  hold.  I  do  not 
suppose  these  creeds  contain  the  faith  in  its  entire- 
ness,  because  I  cannot  see  how  language,  which  is 
a  finite  vessel,  can  convey  or  contain  an  infinite 
idea.  For  instance,  when  I  say  I  believe  in  God, 
I  do  not  suppose  that  Saxon  word  of  three  letters 
can  contain  or  communicate  to  me  the  Divine 
Father  in  His  wholeness.  In  the  Church,  from 
the  start,  a  creed  has  been  called  a  symbolum  —  a 
symbol,  —  a  formal  and  useful  hint  of  something 
beyond  words.  Besides,  when  I  see  that  every 
mind  has  its  own  grasp  on  the  creed,  never  identi- 
cal with  any  other,  and  that  no  man's  grasp  upon 
the  truth  is  always  the  same  or  ever  such  as  to 
embrace  all  that  is  in  the  words  themselves,  I  have 
long  since  come  to  look  upon  creeds  as  walls  which 
the  Church  wisely  builds  around  her  sheepfold  for 
the  security  and  the  liberty  of  the  sheep.  Within 


The  Agnostic.  385 

these  walls  I  dwell,  and  teach  others  to  do  the 
same.  Here  is  the  place,  not  to  sleep  and  waste, 
but  for  a  man's  wholeness  to  wake  and  live  a 
broader,  sweeter  life  than  elsewhere.  Men  say, 
4  Yes,  but  you  sacrifice  reason  to  authority.'  I 
answer,  I  choose  my  authority  by  an  act  of  my 
reason,  just  as  I  choose  my  doctor  and  after  obey 
his  directions  for  my  cure.  Faith  must  be  the  obe- 
dience of  reason  to  an  authority  which  is  valid ; 
superstition  the  obedience  of  reason  to  an  author- 
ity which  is  not." 

"But  suppose  I  deny  that  any  Church  authority 
is  valid  ?  " 

"  Exactly.  I  have  said  so  much  to  explain 
myself  —  not  to  convince  you.  The  question  of 
Church  authority  is  long,  and,  in  what  I  suppose 
your  present  state  of  mind,  not  likely  to  hold  you 
to  faith." 

"How  then  do  you  propose  to  build  me  up  into 
any  sort  of  certainty  ?  " 

"By  going  down  to  the  roots  of  your  con- 
sciousness and  talking  frankly  as  man  should  with 
man.  First,  are  you  sure  of  anything  —  of  your 
existence — of  your  senses,  say?" 

"  Moderately  sure  of  some  things.     Yes." 

"  So  far,  so  good.  For  you  might  raise  the  ques- 
tion, as  others  have,  whether  our  very  conscious- 
ness and  senses  are  not  deceivers.  In  that  case 
you  would  destroy  the  validity  of  all  thought. 


386  The  Agnostic. 

But  inasmuch  as  most  men  go  in  their  affairs  upon 
the  basis  that  these  mental  faculties  of  ours  are 
not  liars  but  truth  tellers,  there  is  no  reason  why 
they  should  deny  them  the  same  ability  in  spiri- 
tual matters.  For  instance,  take  the  question  of 
whether  there  is  any  God.  If  a  man  says,  'Prove 
me  God,'  I  answer  I  cannot  do  that,  in  a  mathe- 
matical way  at  least,  although  I  do  not  doubt  that 
He  is.  I  cannot  prove  Him  from  my  conscious- 
ness, because  a  man  might  deny  I  had  one  or  that 
it  was  correct.  And  yet  the  argument  for  God  is 
to  me  overwhelming,  and  based  on  a  reason  which 
I  trust  every  hour.  For  instance,  you  and  I  go  in 
common  affairs  upon  the  rule  that  thought  implies 
a  thinker,  contrivance  a  contriver,  arrangement 
an  arranger.  But  science  tells  me  the  world  is 
full  of  thought,  contrivance,  arrangement,  and 
these,  too,  beyond  any  human  ability,  from  sand- 
grain  up  to  star.  Shall  I  cross  the  mental  habit 
of  mankind  and  say  the  world  has  the  action  with- 
out the  actor  —  godlike  energies  without  a  God? 
Men  will  say  all  these  world  virtues  come  by 
natural  law.  I  answer,  did  the  law  make  itself? 
Is  there  not  a  lawgiver  ?  But  they  answer  further, 
'The  world  order  comes  by  selection,  evolution,  or 
by  accident.'  Well,  I  have  a  plain  answer  for 
myself  at  least.  I  hold  in  my  hand  the  twenty- 
six  letters  of  the  alphabet  on  as  many  blocks  of 
wood,  one  letter  on  each.  I  throw  these  blocks 


The  Agnostic.  387 

down  upon  the  floor.  How  long  would  it  take  for 
them  to  select  or  evolve  themselves,  as  they  lie 
there,  into  their  sequence  from  A  to  Z,  or  how 
many  times  must  I  throw  them  down  before 
they  will  fall  from  my  hands  into  that  order  ? 
And  yet  I  am  asked  to  admit  that  this  magnificent 
universe,  in  parts  and  whole,  came  by  accident. 
I  say  it  is  a  greater  violence  to  reason  to  believe 
this  than  to  believe  that  order  implies  an  Orderer." 

"But  a  clever  man  may  say,  'I  admit  the 
Orderer,  but  he  must  still  remain  the  Unknown 
— the  Unknowable.'" 

"Yes,  but  only  in  the  same  way  that  all  com- 
mon things  remain  so.  I  suppose  that  a  fly's  wing 
to  a  degree  is  the  unknowable  and  the  unknown 
to  the  most  skilled  savant,  microscope  in  hand. 
Yet  the  fly's  wing  is  and  the  Orderer  too.  How 
is  He?  What  is  He? 

"  We  judge  every  being  from  brute  to  God  by 
its  quality  of  action.  Now  the  world's  order  is 
clearly  superhuman,  unless  we  hold  that  man  can 
make  a  new  violet  or  a  constellation  as  good  as 
any  one.  Dynamically  at  least,  and  in  His  quality 
of  work,  this  Orderer  then  is  not  human.  Sup- 
pose by  way  of  argument  we  venture  to  call  Him 
Divine.  Our  clever  man  says,  '  That  means  noth- 
ing. God,  if  there  be  one  worthy  of  worship, 
must  be  perfect  in  all  His  attributes.' 

"  Certainly,  that  is  what  the  Church  has  always 
said. 


388  The  Agnostic. 

" '  But  His  world,  if  it  be  His,'  he  retorts,  '  is 
full  of  defect  and  flaw,  mildew,  pestilence,  tornado, 
earthquake,  not  to  speak  of  lives  a  span  long, 
rickety  infants,  consumptives,  lepers,  and  the  foul 
family  of  crime.  What  sort  of  a  being  ethically 
is  your  God  ?  ' 

"I  answer  —  if  men  would  only  be  as  sure  of 
what  they  don't  know  as  of  what  they  do,  this 
wrangle  against  God  would  soon  begin  to  end. 
The  origin  of  evil  I  don't  know,  and  I  never  met 
the  man  who  did.  But  I  ask,  if  in  this  world  we 
find  so  much  well  done  for  man,  such  care,  fore- 
sight, wisdom,  tenderness,  if  it  be  not  more  rea- 
sonable to  believe  that  the  things  which  seem  evil 
are  only  veils  of  good,  than  to  think  that  the 
Power  of  Mercy,  which  gives  the  wine  and  corn 
of  life,  contradicts  Himself  in  mildew  and  cancer  ? 
Human  reason  is  indeed  fallible,  either  as  affirm- 
ing or  denying  God,  but  such  as  it  is,  as  man's  his- 
tory shows,  it  has  been  generally  on  the  side  of  a 
God.  The  few  who  cross  the  trend  of  a  whole 
race  should  at  least  be  modest  in  their  premises." 

"  You  claim,  then,  that  the  presumption  of  rea- 
son is  on  the  side  of  a  God?" 

"  I  certainly  do ;  and  as  I  am  made  I  cannot  see 
it  any  other  way.  And  you  will  notice  that  so 
far  I  have  said  nothing  of  the  Bible  argument  in 
favor  of  God.  Whatever  any  man  may  take  the 
Bible  to  be,  no  sane  man  can  deny  that  it  asserts 


The  Agnostic.  389 

the  fact  of  God.  It  even  goes  farther  and  as- 
sumes the  fact  of  God  as  a  fact  not  to  be  ques- 
tioned, and  lying  at  the  base  of  all  its  religion  and 
ethics.  It  is  indeed  the  history  of  God's  dealings 
with  men  and  a  statement  of  their  duties  to  Him ; 
and  in  its  theme  of  Christ,  running  as  that  theme 
does  through  its  elder  books  down  to  the  latest 
lines,  it  declares  our  salvation  through  the  Son  of 
God.  No  fact  in  literature  is  plainer. 

"  Of  course,  the  force  of  this  Bible  argument  de- 
pends on  the  credibility  of  the  Book  itself.  The 
Church  says  it  is  the  very  word  of  God,  and  on 
my  ground  I  must  and  do  accept  it  as  that.  But 
exactly  how,  and  in  what,  it  is  God's  word  (as,  for 
instance,  whether,  when  Isaiah  had  two  words  at 
hand  to  express  an  idea,  he  was  inspired  to  take 
one  and  leave  the  other,  or  when  another  writer 
speaks  of  sunrise  he  is  inspired  to  use  a  scientific 
statement  and  not  merely  a  current  form  of 
speech,  and  in  a  thousand  other  things),  the 
Church  has  never  defined ;  and  as  I  arn  not  one 
of  God's  privy  councillors,  as  some  affect  to  be, 
neither  do  I.  Authority  must  define,  not  my 
reason. 

"  Yet  I  suppose  that  every  man  holding  as  I  do, 
under  authority,  has  his  own  personal  arguments 
to  satisfy  his  own  turn  of  mind.  Let  me  state 
what  mine  are  as  to  the  word  of  God.  I  start 
out  with  the  truism,  not  denied  perhaps  by  any, 


390  The  Agnostic. 

that  the  Bible  is  an  effect.  Reason  teaches  you 
and  me  that  every  effect  must  not  only  have  a 
cause  but  an  adequate  cause.  A  river  cannot 
flow  from  a  wineglass.  I  start  from  here  and 
read  all  those  supreme  books  which  great  masses 
of  men  have  reverenced, —  Confucius,  Zoroaster, 
Buddha,  Socrates,  Plato,  Marcus  Aurelius,  Epic- 
tetus,  and  perhaps  the  Elder  Edda  of  the  Norse- 
men. These  books  complete  perhaps  the  cycle  of 
all  that  men,  by  themselves,  have  thought  about 
religion  and  ethics,  or  man's  duty  to  the  Divine 
and  to  the  human.  Some  of  these  books  were 
written  by  men  who  lived  in  the  very  blaze  of 
the  foremost  civilizations  and  culture  of  the  world, 
and  the  oldest  also.  I  find  in  these  books  sublime 
guesses  at  truth,  often  a  thirst  for  it ;  sometimes 
a  sweet  and  gentle  charity,  but  no  certainty. 
Take  Socrates'  plea  for  immortality  in  "  Phaedo " 
as  an  example  of  what  I  mean.  I  am  very  far 
from  saying  that  many  things  in  these  books  were 
not,  in  a  certain  sense,  though  not  the  Church 
sense,  inspired ;  since  from  of  old  the  Church  of 
God  has  taught  that  He  abides  in  the  soul  of 
every  one. 

"  Then  I  turn  from  this  secular  reading  to  the 
Holy  Oracles.  First  of  all,  I  find  that  they  de- 
clare themselves  to  be  from  God.  Next  I  find 
that  this  Bible  shows  a  coherency  and  a  consis- 
tency in  its  religion  and  ethics  not  to  be  found  in 


The  Agnostic.  391 

those  other  books.  That  the  Jewish  Scriptures 
sometimes  show  a  different  temper  from  the 
Christian  proves  nothing  against  my  statement, 
since  the  Bible  itself  declares  that  it  is  a  history 
of  the  development  of  a  world  religion,  from 
Adam  to  St.  John,  in  which  the  old  broadens  and 
clarifies  into  the  new.  Next  I  find  in  the  Bible 
a  certainty  and  definiteness  which  are  nowhere 
else ;  and  these  qualities  too,  on  such  questions 
as  God,  immortality,  and  the  vexed  matters  of  our 
mortal  life.  Whatever  else  it  has,  the  Bible  has 
no  guesses,  and  it  claims  authority  to  be  obeyed. 
Then  I  ask  after  the  history  of  this  book.  Some 
man  may  tell  me  that  Moses  wrote  into  its  first 
five  books  the  learning  of  the  Egyptian  priest- 
hood. But  until  the  savants  can  show  me  from 
any  or  all  the  monuments  of  three  thousand 
years  of  Egypt  any  doctrine  of  God  as  plainly 
stated  as  the  Bible  does,  or  any  ethics  as  pure  and 
lofty  as  the  Ten  Commandments,  I  shall  take  leave 
to  say  that  the  Bible  cannot  be  from  Egypt.  But 
from  whence,  then  ?  I  find  that  it  was  mostly 
writ  by  a  race  of  emancipated  serfs,  turned  peas- 
ants, in  a  land  of  few  monuments,  little  wealth, 
and  still  less  culture. 

"Now  to  my  argument.  The  supreme  minds  of 
men,  like  Socrates  and  Plato,  in  supreme  ages 
of  culture,  as  seen  in  their  writings,  show  the 
high-water  mark  of  mere  human  thought.  Yet  in 


392  The  Agnostic. 

those  particulars  which  I  have  stated,  and  others 
also,  the  Bible  outranks  them  all.  And  yet, 
mostly,  it  is  the  work  of  fishermen  and  peasants. 
Then  I  go  back  to  my  old  law  of  adequate  cause 
and  effect.  I  say  that  achievement  which  is  super- 
human must  be  divine.  But  the  divine  is  God.  If 
the  Bible  is  God's  word,  for  me  at  least  God  is 
proved,  and  twice  —  by  its  source  and  by  its  sub- 
stance. The  Bible  as  it  is,  is  and  must  always  be 
its  own  best  defence.  After  all  this  argument,  be 
it  good  or  bad,  I  wish  to  say,  that  what  air  is  to 
my  lungs,  that  God. is  to  my  soul,  and  more." 

"From  your  standpoint,  what  would  you  say 
about  any  sort  of  future  life  ?  " 

"I  say  that  when  you  have  proved  God  you 
have  proved  immortality.  If  there  be  a  God,  man 
must  live  beyond  the  grave  —  and  for  two  reasons. 
First,  God  could  never  mock  men  by  creating  in 
them  a  hunger  for  immortality  which  he  never 
meant  to  satisfy.  Second,  He  would  never  create 
a  human  life  so  fragmentary  and  unfinished  as  this 
of  ours,  and  not  round  and  finish  it  with  a  higher 
future  life.  God,  if  He  could  wrong,  would  cease 
to  be  God  at  all.  The  Bible,  as  you  are  aware, 
assumes  eternity  no  less  than  time  to  be  man's 
birthright." 

"  And  would  you  claim  Christianity  to  be  from 
God  —  the  one  religion  of  man  ?  " 

"Certainly.     The  Bible  and  the  Church  claim 


The  Agnostic.  393 

for  it  nothing  less.  I  need  not  state  their  argu- 
ments. But  as  I  am  talking,  as  man  to  man,  you 
will  let  me  say  that  Christianity  proves  itself 
divine  from  the  superhuman  completeness  of  its 
adaptations  to  the  needs  of  man.  A  religion  from 
God  to  man  must  be  able  to  do  its  work,  not  half- 
way, but  all  ways.  I  confess  that  men  have  mis- 
moulded  the  Faith  again  and  again ;  but  the  Faith 
is  of  the  pattern  once  and  forever  made  in  the 
Mount  of  God.  Christianity  is  able  to  satisfy 
humanity  in  its  entireness,  as  no  other  religion 
can.  Human  religions  recognize  class,  circum- 
stance, or  color.  The  Faith  embraces  a  race, 
and  is  color-blind.  Gibbon,  in  that  famous  Ninth 
Chapter  of  his  History,  gives  diverse  reasons  why, 
in  mere  human  ways,  Christianity,  as  a  new  super- 
stition, made  its  conquest  so  swiftly  over  the 
Roman  Empire.  The  simple  fact  is,  that  Christi- 
anity conquered  heathenism  because,  from  serf  to 
king,  it  was  so  curiously  and  minutely  adapted 
to  human  needs.  It  was,  and  is,  the  one  gate 
which  opens  to  admit  man  into  an  eternal  bliss. 
Wherever  it  has  availed,  it  alone  has  changed  the 
cry  of  the  human  from  a  wail  to  a  psean." 

After  thanks  to  the  rector,  Edward  Vaughn  took 
leave.  The  arguments  had  availed  nothing  with 
him.  To  the  man  with  a  film  grown  over  his 
eyes,  the  landscape  in  the  brightest  sunshine  is  as 
though  it  were  not.  In  spiritual  things  the  film 


394  The  Aynostic. 

over  one's  vision  is  from  the  soul.    And  in  Edward 
Vaughn's  dwelt  darkness. 

The  evening  of  the  day  when  Edward  Vaughn 
held  his  interview  with  the  rector,  as  has  been 
told,  he  had  occasion  to  go  to  Mother  Walker's 
house  to  look  up  her  son.  It  was  some  small 
matter  about  sailing  the  Qui  Vive  the  next 
day  which  took  him.  As  he  went  up  stairs  he 
heard  a  voice  reading.  It  was  a  musical  voice,  a 
woman's  —  which  he  came  speedily  to  apprehend 
was  Lucy  Farewell's.  He  had  not  seen  much  of 
that  lady,  lately,  but  had  heard  of  her  from  some 
of  the  poor  folk  among  whom  she  ministered.  In 
fact,  Mother  Walker  herself,  on  one  occasion,  had 
been  loud  in  her  praises  to  him.  Therefore  he 
was  not  much  surprised  to  find  her  here.  So 
he  went  up,  quietly,  nearer  the  reading.  The 
door  was  open,  and  as  he  came  to  the  landing 
he  had  a  view  of  Mother  Walker,  in  her  white 
cap,  sitting  quietly,  with  her  big  son  beside  her, 
both  intent  on  listening.  The  reader,  a  trifle  aside 
the  door,  he  could  not  see.  The  words  read  were 
those  about  the  Good  Shepherd  and  his  sheepfold, 
and  Edward  Vaughn  confessed  to  himself,  as  he 
listened,  that  they  sounded  like  gracious  ones,  and 
no  less  so  for  the  reading.  So  when  the  same 
voice  after  said,  "  Let  us  pray,"  and  the  son  helped 
his  mother  to  kneel  down  beside  him,  Edward 
Vaughn  too  went  on  his  knees  at  the  door  out- 


The  Agnostic.  395 

side.  It  was  not  exactly  a  logical  act  for  him, 
perhaps,  nor  were  his  own  devotions  very  fervent, 
if  he  had  any ;  and  yet  it  had  some  advantages. 
It  brought  him  into  a  certain  human  relationship 
with  those  who  prayed,  and  he  was  clearly  not  in 
his  devout  attitude  to  be  seen  of  men.  When 
the  prayers  ended,  he  knocked  at  the  door  —  his 
human  reverence,  at  least,  for  the  rights  of  those 
who  lived  within.  John  Walker  came  at  the 
knock,  and  with  a  pull  at  where  his  hat  usually 
was,  asked  him  in. 

"  So  you  keep  church  here,  Mother,"  he  said  in 
a  good-natured  way ;  "  and  Miss  Farewell  is  the 
parson.  This  neighborhood  has  need  enough  of  a 
church  or  something  else  to  keep  it  straight ;  and 
I  am  sure  that  most  of  us  are  quite  ready  to 
accept  a  young  lady's  orders "  (with  a  bow  to 
Lucy).  That  lady  suggested  in  a  very  modest 
way  that  if  things  needed  righting  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, Mr.  Vaughn  in  his  position  had  both 
time  and  ability  to  do  the  needed  work. 

"I  may  have  some  of  the  physical  elements 
necessary  for  a  missionary,"  he  said,  laughing, 
"but  I  sadly  lack  grace.  In  fact,  I  should  like 
to  have  a  couple  of  missionaries  to  take  my  own 
case  in  hand.  Heathenism  is  often  very  acute 
in  a  Christian  land,  and  with  less  surface  has  more 
depth.  Some  of  us  are  very  wells  of  barbarism. 
I  believe  in  home  missions." 


396  The  Aynostic. 

"  But  every  one  should  do  thier  part  to  make 
things  better." 

"True,  and  charity  begins  at  home.  But  if  I 
were  to  go  round  here  on  a  mission  (supposing  I 
were  thought  fit)  I  should  certainly  behave  in  a 
very  uncanonical  way,  provided  I  had  the  power. 
I  would  put,  for  instance,  every  mother  who 
wouldn't  keep  her  children's  faces  clean  under  a 
shower-bath  until  she  would ;  pump  every  drunken 
father  full  of  river  water  until  he  gave  up  his 
dram  ;  flog  every  shop-man  who  gives  short  weight 
and  measure  with  his  own  yardstick,  sitting  in  a 
bushel  basket  until  he  promised  better ;  tag  every 
woman  gossip  with  a  big  G,  and  if  she  wore  a 
flower-garden  on  her  hat,  I  would  force  her  to 
lug  round  a  cabbage  head  for  a  bouquet,  until  she 
would  agree  to  better  taste; — in  fact  I  would 
sweep  away  social  cobwebs  and  dust-heaps  gener- 
ally." 

"But  would  all  that  make  them  Christians,  Mr. 
Vaughn?" 

"  Perhaps  not.  In  fact  no.  But  it  would  clean 
up  a  little  for  religion  when  it  came.  I  have  al- 
ways had  a  sympathy  for  those  Hebrew  prophets 
who  went  round  making  things  uncomfortable 
for  time-serving  kings  and  mean  folk  generally ; 
rough  reformers  in  raiment  of  camels'-hair  and 
leathern  girdles,  and  as  free  and  unconventional 
in  their  behaviors  as  the  wind  or  the  rain  it 


The  Agnostic.  397 

drives  before  it.  They  were  not  men  who  lived 
in  a  glass  house  —  nor  a  house  of  any  kind  for 
that  matter.  I  do.  But  I  should  hugely  enjoy 
throwing  stones  about  —  perhaps  at  my  own  win- 
dows first  to  get  my  hand  in.  Anyhow,  speaking 
of  stones,  I  notice  in  the  city  they  tear  up  the 
pavement  in  order  to  lay  down  a  better  street. 
The  litter  of  repair  may  baulk  my  carriage,  but 
I  get  at  last  a  better  thoroughfare.  I  am  just 
now  a  destructive  Christian,  sadly  in  need  of 
mending ;  and  am  not  at  all  sure  that  I  have  any 
mission  except  to  eat  my  dinner  and  talk  random 
nonsense." 

All  this  indeed  was  an  unknown  tongue  to  the 
simple  folk  in  whose  house  he  was,  and  worse 
than  that  to  Lucy  Farewell,  whose  more  sensitive 
nature  felt  as  if  a  cold  wind  were  blowing  across 
it.  So  by  the  consent  of  every  one  the  conversa- 
tion speedily  took  a  turn  towards  simpler  matters, 
and  ended  with  kind  words  well  taken. 

"Tell  the  gardener  to-morrow,  John,  that  you 
are  to  have  your  winter  vegetables  off  the  place." 

"  Yes,  thank  ye,  Mr.  Vaughn." 

So  when  Lucy  Farewell  rose  to  go,  and  John 
had  gone  to  the  closet  (and  Mother  Walker  at  his 
heels)  to  light  his  lantern  and  show  Lucy  home, 
as  he  used  at  her  visits,  Edward  Vaughn  said, 
"I  have  known  ladies  of  leisure  take  to  works 
of  charity,  as  their  more  fashionable  sisters  take 


398  The  Agnostic. 

to  opera  or  dance  or  dinner,  as  a  way  of  getting 
through  the  day  and  a  sort  of  mental  dissipation 
agreeable  to  their  make-up.  But  I  know  you 
have  plenty  to  do  in  your  school,  and  I  often 
wonder,  when  I  hear  of  you,  what  induces  you  to 
spend  your  time  among  poor  folks." 

"  To  try  and  be  a  little  like  my  Lord,"  she 
answered  simply. 

"And  why,  allow  me  to  ask,  do  you  pray?" 

"  Because,"  she  said  after  a  pause,  "  because  I 
am  made  so,  as  I  am  made  to  breathe." 

"  And  have  you  ever  thought  of  the  arguments 
for  prayer  ?  " 

"Never,  no  more  than  I  should  of  the  argu- 
ments for  my  existence.  It  is  a  part  of  life  to 
pray." 

"  What  would  you  say  of  a  man  who  never 
prayed  ?  " 

"I  should  think  him  unworthy  of  his  name." 

"  Thank  you." 

And  John  Walker  came  with  his  lantern  to 
show  the  lady  home.  Edward  Vaughn  sauntered 
listlessly  down  to  the  wharf  where  the  Qui  Vive 
lay,  watching  the  swinging  light  as  it  went  up 
the  river,  and  after,  the  black  tide  setting  down. 

"  There  is  no  light  in  any  of  their  arguments," 
he  said.  "And  yet — "  And  yet,  in  the  act  of 
an  educated  and  honest  woman  like  Lucy  Farewell 
kneeling  down  on  a  rough,  floor  among  the  poor 


The  Agnostic.  399 

to  pray,  there  had  somehow  been  something  which 
warmed  his  soul,  warmed  it  not  indeed  to  any 
passion  of  serving  man  or  God,  but  so  that  it 
stirred  as  if  to  recognize  itself  and  to  make  ready. 
Such  motion  is  indeed  life  in  its  germ. 

This  of  course  he  did  not  know,  and  therefore 
did  not  confess.  But  in  this  world  of  heresy  a 
true  word  or  act  is  always  orthodox.  The  world, 
at  its  peril  may  answer  as  it  may  please  to  dogma ; 
but  it  cannot  answer,  except  to  reverence,  women 
kneeling  in  the  hovels ;  nursing  the  sick  in  hospi- 
tals ;  touching  the  leprosy  of  sin  to  wash  it  clean 
with  their  own  purity ;  and  all  in  the  name  of  Him 
who  went  about  doing  good.  In  the  days  now  up- 
on us,  which  will  abide  late  into  the  future,  creeds 
must  be  accredited  to  men  by  deeds.  Our  heathen- 
isms of  head  and  heart  must  be  healed  by  the 
ointment  of  Christian  lives.  The  Light  of  the 
world  upon  that  cross  which  is  at  once  His  throne 
and  altar  must  be  defended  by  the  smile  of  His 
own  charity  shining  in  the  face  of  His. 


CHAPTER   XXXV. 

THE   CHRISTMAS    TIDE. 

THE  Advent  season  had  come  and  gone,  bringing 
tidings  of  an  approaching  joy.  Yet  Nature  gave 
no  sign,  in  her  lengthening  nights  and  stronger 
cold,  of  her  Lord's  Nativity.  The  leaves  that 
smiled  in  the  sunshine  paled  in  the  frost,  and  the 
very  sun  moved  slower  as  if  benumbed.  Autumn 
with  her  grays  blanched  into  white  winter  whose 
snow  seemed  to  shroud  the  dead.  The  life  of 
Aubrey  folk  in  these  days  was  lapsing  also  some- 
where, but  with  no  incident  that  affects  this  story. 
Edward  Vaughn  had  his  darkness  and  the  rest 
their  work  afield  or  indoors. 

But  now  a  new  Christmas  had  come  to  this  old 
world,  which  put  on,  as  it  were,  its  wedding  gar- 
ments. There  was  wrought  indeed  no  change  in 
tide,  hill,  or  star,  yet  the  inner  eye  saw  a  new 
halo  on  each.  Christendom,  at  least,  was  gathered 
about  a  cradle. 

Christinas  tide  always  ran  strong  and  full  in  St. 
Clement's  church.  There  had  been  for  the  week 
past  the  usual  litter  and  labor  with  the  Christmas 
greens.  Sturdy  farmers  had  brought,  in  ox-carts 


The   Christmas  Tide.  401 

from  their  wood-lots,  loads  of  boughs  and  young 
trees;  there  had  been  the  common  chatter  and 
altercation  over  the  tying  of  the  greens  and  their 
placing;  young  ladies  had  pricked  their  fingers 
with  the  hemlock  needles,  and  blushed  a  score  of 
times  when  their  deft  fingers  failed  to  tie  the  knot 
of  a  string  much  too  short,  while  their  swains 
held  up  the  wreaths;  ladders  had  been  set  and 
climbed  until,  at  nightfall,  the  whole  house  seemed 
weary  in  the  shadows,  as  the  toilers  went  home ; 
and  there  had  been,  in  fine,  the  usual  medley  of 
the  Christmas  decoration  of  St.  Clement's. 

It  was  now  Christmas  Eve,  and  the  children  of 
the  parish  were  to  have,  to-night,  their  Christmas 
tree  and  presents  in  the  church  basement.  Lucy 
Farewell  arranged  the  ceremony.  So  before  early 
dark  the  room  swarmed  with  the  little  ones,  eager 
and  noisy  as  at  such  times  children  are,  and  many 
a  little  girl's  starched  calico  had  been  rumpled 
by  the  careless  small  boys  in  cowhide  boots  and 
jackets  buttoned  to  the  throat,  in  a  room,  which, 
at  such  times,  seemed  unreasonably  hot ;  boys 
who  were  sure  to  get  in  everybody's  way,  and 
more  than  they  deserved,  to  boot.  Indeed,  the 
tumult  hardly  ended  when  the  rector  came  in, 
smiling,  and  with  an  occasional  finger  of  warning 
to  the  more  uneasy.  A  few  words  to  explain  the 
festival  were  to  be  spoken  before  the  Christmas 
tree  was  lighted  and  the  presents  given,  for  the 


402  The   Christmas  Tide. 

plain  reason  that  a  crowd  of  children  like  these 
were  never  known  to  listen  to  any  eloquence  of 
man  or  woman  afterwards. 

So  the  rector  explained  what  Christmas  was, 
and  afterwards  the  tree  was  lighted.  It  was  soon 
ablaze  with  candles,  but  such  little  ones,  and  so 
savoring  of  anything  but  Roman  incense  as  they 
were  snuffed  out,  that  the  most  ultra-Protestant 
took  no  offence.  Then  the  presents  were  handed 
round,  as  the  names  were  called,  and  several  failed 
to  be  satisfied  with  what  they  got.  The  rest  soon 
bestowed  their  new  riches  in  their  pockets  or  their 
stomachs. 

The  Christmas  tree  itself  had  been  sent  over  by 
Edward  Vaughn,  and  John  Walker  had  assisted 
at  its  furnishing  all  that  afternoon.  The  former 
had  come  in  late  to  the  ceremony,  and  now  stood 
watching  it  from  the  back  part  of  the  room.  So 
when  the  tree  was  quite  stripped  of  presents,  and 
the  tapers  well-nigh  out,  and  somebody's  bright 
eyes  had  discovered  a  solitary  white  envelope  nigh 
the  top,  it  was  John  who  was  called  on  to  bring 
down  the  same.  This  he  managed  to  do  by 
the  aid  of  a  pair  of  high  steps,  while  the  small 
boys  watched  him  climbing  in  sailor  fashion,  and 
brought  the  envelope  to  the  rector.  "  This,"  said 
the  latter,  looking  at  the  inscription,  "  is  for  Miss 
Lucy  Farewell ; "  and  a  clapping  of  hands  testi- 
fied to  that  young  lady's  popularity.  She  came 


The   Christmas  Tide.  403 

forward  and  took  her  present,  or  whatever  it 
might  be.  Then  she  went  back  to  her  place 
among  the  scholars,  two  eyes  at  least  watching 
her  every  movement.  Then  she  broke  the  wax 
seal,  and,  as  the  restless  urchins  round  her  allowed, 
looked  inside.  If  one  could  have  seen  the  face 
below  the  bent  head,  he  would  have  seen  alarm 
and  even  vexation.  But  she  very  deliberately  put 
the  letter  in  her  pocket.  Shortly  the  merry,  noisy 
children  went  trooping  out,  while  their  elders 
were  left  to  sigh  over  the  toil  it  would  take  to 
clear  away  the  litter.  When  Lucy  Farewell  made 
ready  to  go,  well  muffled  up  against  the  night 
air,  Edward  Vaughn  was  standing  with  his  back 
to  her  talking  with  his  man  at  the  tree.  It  was 
an  impulse,  almost,  but  she  went  to  him  and  laid 
her  hand  upon  his  arm. 

"  I  wish  very  much  to  speak  with  you  a 
moment." 

"  Certainly.     Now  ?  " 

"  Not  here ;  but  if  you  will  walk  with  me 
towards  Miss  Kendrick's,  across  the  Common,  I 
will  explain." 

"  By  all  means." 

The  children's  merry  voices  were  ringing  down 
the  street  in  the  crisp  winter  air,  and  there  was  a 
flood  of  moonlight  on  the  white  snow.  She  said, 
when  they  were  rid  of  the  straggling  young- 
sters, 


404  The   Christmas  Tide. 

"I  wish  to  hand  you  back  this,"  and  she  gave 
him  out  of  her  muff  the  envelope  which  had  come 
to  her  from  the  Christmas  tree. 

"  Me  ?    Ah !  yes ;  what  is  it  ?    May  I  examine  ?  " 

So  he  stopped  short  in  the  snow,  and  very 
deliberately  proceeded  to  examine  its  contents  by 
moonlight. 

"  Yes ;  here  are  bank  bills  —  new  ones ;  one  or 
two  big  ones,  but  pray  tell  me  what  have  I  to  do 
with  them?  You  certainly  don't  want  to  make 
me  a  Christmas  present  at  this  late  hour.  Besides, 
I  am  not  at  present  in  need  of  money." 

"I  am  sure  that  this  money  came  some  way 
from  you,  and  I  wish  to  give  it  back." 

"Ah!  that's  the  trouble,  is  it?  Will  you  do 
me  the  honor  to  tell  me  how  you  know  all  that?" 

"Because  no  one  else  would  give  so  large  a 
sum,  and  the  envelope  was  sealed  with  wax,  which 
our  townspeople  are  not  used  to  do.  Besides,  I 
feel  that  somehow  this  money  came  from  you." 

"Bravo!  my  little  lady.  And  do  you  think 
that  judge  or  jury  would  convict  me  on  that  evi- 
dence ?  I  don't  see  any  handwriting  here/' 

"  There  is  none  except  on  the  envelope." 

"  Ah !  yes ;  but  I  tell  you  on  my  honor  that 
handwriting  is  not  mine."  (He  was  right  in 
that.)  "Do  you  know  my  writing?" 

"  No ;  but  I  know  that  this  money  came  from 
you,  and  I  wish  to  give  it  back." 


The   Christmas  Tide.  405 

"Now,  be  reasonable,  Miss  Farewell.  You 
know  the  old  saw,  'A  woman  convinced  against 
her  will  is  of  the  same  opinion  still.'  You  have 
no  fair  reason  to  think  I  sent  this  money." 

"I  ask  you,  then,  as  a  gentleman,  didn't  you 
send  it?" 

"  And  I  reply,  as  a  gentleman,  that  I  decline  to 
answer  any  such  question.  For  if  I  sent  that 
money  anonymously,  I  did  not  mean  to  own  it; 
and  if  I  should  deny  I  sent  it,  you  would  only 
trouble  yourself  to  hunt  up  some  other  poor 
fellow  to  bring  him  to  confession.  I  must  decline 
to  answer." 

"  And  I  must  decline  to  receive  your  money." 

"  What !  will  you  force  me  to  take  money 
which  is  not  mine?  I  know  that  you  are  kind 
to  the  poor,  but  I  am  no  pauper,  at  least  so  far  as 
bank  bills  go,  and  you  certainly  won't  force  me 
to  take  alms  from  yoUj  will  you?  Here,  take  it 
back,"  and  he  held  out  the  envelope  with  its 
enclosure  to  her. 

But  both  hands  went  deeper  into  the  little  muff, 
as  she  said,  "I  cannot  do  that,  Mr.  Vaughn." 

"  Cannot,  cannot "  (with  a  vexed  air  almost  of 
anger). 

"  Well,  then,  take  it  back,  and  throw  it  on  the 
snow,  or  give  it  to  the  poor,  as  you  like.  Only 
don't  make  me  hold  this  miserable  package  in  this 
sort  of  quarrel." 


406  The  Christmas  Tide. 

But  the  gallant  little  lady,  hands  in  muff,  stood 
her  ground,  and  made  no  motion  of  assent. 

"  Will  you  do  as  I  ask  you  ?  " 

"  No,  sir.     I  cannot  take  that  money." 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  I  ought  not." 

"What  a  deal  of  trouble  conscience  makes  in 
this  world,  especially  when  it  goes  askew." 

The  little  lady  looked  at  him  with  two  very  full 
black  eyes,  and  steadily. 

"If  your  sister  were  in  my  place  here,  you 
would  despise  her  if  she  did  anything  else  than 
what  I  am  doing  now.  That  money  is  not  mine. 
I  am  sure  it  is  yours.  I  will  have  nothing  to  do 
with  it  any  further.  You  yourself  will  come  to 
see  that  I  am  right  in  saying  so." 

And  the  little  lady's  right  foot  motioned  to  go 
home. 

So  Edward  Vaughn  crammed  the  miserable 
little  missive  into  his  pocket  with  a  shrug  of 
intense  disgust,  and  prepared  to  attend. 

All  further  conversation  took  place  at  Miss 
Mary's  door : 

"  Good  night." 

"  Good  night,  Mr.  Vaughn." 

Even  he  confessed  it  was  a  sweet  voice  that 
answered. 

Edward  Vaughn  went  home,  singing  no  paean. 
Otherwise  he  was  the  slave  of  his  own  disgust. 


The   Christmas  Tide.  407 

He  had  half  a  mind  to  fling  the  envelope  into  the 
fire,  but  did  not.  He  had  been  wont  to  find  in 
woman  acquiescence.  And  Lucy  Farewell's  vic- 
tory nettled  him.  The  atmosphere  of  her  woman's 
honor,  so  intangible  and  yet  so  valid,  had  availed 
against  his  iron  will. 

In  the  poor  box  of  St.  Clement's  shortly  after 
was  found  a  roll  of  new  bank  bills  which  surprised 
the  rector. 


CHAPTER    XXXVI. 

WATER    AGAIN. 

CHRISTMAS  had  gone,  and  also  the  Epiphany  or 
Feast  of  Light  to  us  Gentiles,  while  the  New  Year 
lay  pallid  in  the  rime  of  midwinter.  The  snow 
covered  deep  among  the  pines,  and  the  ice  thick- 
ened and  rumbled  in  its  hoar  rage  until  it  had 
chained  down  all  the  rivers. 

At  this  season  Aubrey  folk  used  to  hold  high 
carnival  upon  the  ice,  and  turned  the  river  below 
their  town  into  a  racecourse,  especially  on  Satur- 
day afternoons.  There  also  the  skaters,  men  and 
women,  turned  out  in  force.  The  Saturday  of 
our  present  story  the  crowd  was  more  than  usual; 
and  the  pokey  nags  and  high  breds  of  the  town 
ran  queer  races  up  and  down  the  ice,  while  their 
owners  sat  in  their  comfortable  sleighs  and  held 
hard  the  reins.  Every  one  seemed  in  high  spirits, 
even  to  the  motley  pack  of  curs  who  got  under 
everybody's  heels,  except  the  horses'.  Even 
Granny  Little  was  on  the  ice,  to  beg.  So  also 
was  Edward  Vaughn  and  Lucy  Farewell  —  both 
skating.  John  Walker  was  in  his  ice-boat,  like 
the  old  sailor  he  was,  making  voyages  along  the 


Water  Again.  409 

edges  of  the  crowd  or  into  the  far  regions  of  the 
gray  ice-stretches  down  the  river.  For  the  illu- 
mination of  those  who  dwell  in  less  arctic  regions 
than  Aubrey  Parish,  it  may  be  noted  that  an  ice- 
boat is  very  much  like  any  other  rough  skiff  or 
flat  boat  with  a  sail ;  only  it  is  set  on  a  low 
wooden  frame,  sprawling  out  on  either  side,  with 
its  ends  resting  by  the  aid  of  stout,  steel  points 
upon  the  ice.  The  rudder  has  also  its  steel  point 
for  guidance,  and  the  rigging  is  the  common  one 
of  all  small  water  craft. 

The  ice  frolic  had  worn  away  to  the  late  after- 
noon, and  the  gray,  pulseless  sunshine  from  the 
slanting  sun  shone  frigidly  through  the  stripped 
oaks  on  the  hill  ranges.  The  bustling,  merry 
crowd  still  hung  well  together  up  the  river,  and 
the  youngsters  had  already  built  their  straggling 
wood  fires  on  the  ice  at  which  to  warm  their  fin- 
gers and  watch  the  ascending  smoke,  column-like, 
in  the  thin  air,  when  Edward  Vaughn,  who  was  at 
leisure,  came  to  notice  a  lady  skating  alone  and 
down  the  river.  The  distance  only  showed  a  trim, 
petite  figure  in  black  ;  but  he  knew  it  very  well. 
He  had  not  affected  that  lady's  company  to-day, 
neither  did  he  proceed  to  do  so  now.  Only  he 
disengaged  himself  from  the  crowd  and  very  lei- 
surely skated  off  in  her  direction,  with  nothing 
to  do  and  only  a  trifle  curious  to  know  where  she 
was  going.  He  had  learned  that  river  well  in  the 


410  Water  Again. 

Qui  Vive,  and  where  its  currents  must  run  under 
the  ice.  So  he  skated  on.  The  lady  in  black  was 
nearing  the  Point  of  Rocks  where  the  hills  pushed 
the  waters  together  in  swifter  flow.  But  the  ice 
was  no  doubt  thick  there  —  a  foot  at  least.  So 
there  was  no  danger.  He  took  a  look  round  him 
a  moment  as  he  skated,  at  the  crowd  above,  and 
then  at  the  sun  to  see  how  late  it  was.  But  when 
he  looked  down-stream  again  the  little  lady  had 
vanished.  The  gray  ice  reaching  far  down  to  the 
pines  showed  no  human  form  upon  it.  Good 
God  !  Had  she  gone  through  the  ice  ?  Yes ;  a 
thousand  to  one  she  had.  He  flung  himself  for- 
ward upon  his  skates  with  the  energy  of  a  man 
ready.  Seconds  counted  as  ages  in  his  eagerness 
to  do.  On,  on,  with  teeth  hard  set  and  white 
face,  swifter —  swifter, —  with  life  and  death  in 
his  stride,  he  mastered  distance,  and  was  ap- 
proaching. Yes,  there,  low  down,  close  to  the 
gray  ice,  a  woman's  head  —  yes,  two  hands  cling- 
ing to  the  ice  edge.  And  between  him  and  her 
just  a  rift  of  black  water,  eddying,  cold,  cruel  — 
and  he  saw  the  gates  of  death  wide  open.  Swift 
as  an  arrow,  steady-handed,  open-eyed,  as  men  of 
the  forlorn  hope  break  into  the  breach  of  flame,  so 
Edward  Vaughn  flung  himself  into  the  tide,  and 
the  gates  of  death  closed  round  him.  In  a  mo- 
ment his  left  arm  was  well  round  her,  and  his  right 
held  to  the  ice.  "  Do  not  clutch  me.  It  is  death 


Water  Again.  411 

to  both,"  were  the  only  words  spoken.  It  was 
speedy  death  to  both  as  they  were,  and  he  knew 
it.  The  ice  was  thin,  and  worn  by  the  stream 
—  a  mere  crust  —  where  Lucy  Farewell  went  in  ; 
and  iu  his  rage  to  live  he  now  broke  with  his  hand 
of  flesh  the  ice,  until  its  thickness  stayed  him. 
And  the  black,  remorseless  tide  was  ever  dragging 
down  and  under. 

Had  the  end  come  ?  Then  let  it  come  and  be 
welcome.  What  had  life  been  to  him  that  he 
should  care  or  quarrel  at  the  something  or  noth- 
ing beyond  ?  Yet  he  would  have  saved  the 
woman.  Why  ?  In  atonement  for  something  ? 
Perhaps,  or  to  show  himself,  as  he  passed,  that  he 
had  had  in  him  a  spark  of  something  better  than 
he  had  showed  to  man. 

Men  die  by  the  fireside  in  quiet  sleep ;  men  live 
after  the  fire,  the  flood,  the  dagger.  The  East 
calls  the  decision  between  life  and  death,  Fate ; 
the  West,  as  better  taught  in  God,  calls  it  Provi- 
dence. 

For  John  Walker,  in  his  ice-boat,  had  followed 
leisurely  his  master  as  he  had  gone  down  the 
river,  and  had  seen  him  disappear,  as  it  looked, 
under  the  ice.  And  he  too  was  a  man  and  human, 
and  must  be  brief  if  he  would  save.  He  had 
the  wind  quartering,  and  he  sheeted  hard  home 
his  sail  and  drove  on.  He  stood  up,  hand  on 
main  sheet  and  rudder,  and  bending  forward 


412  Water  Again. 

measured  his  distances  to  make  ready.  What 
ages  men  live  in  such  supreme  moments  !  Nearer, 
nearer,  a  black  mass  in  the  water,  two  of  them, — 
and  their  fate  lay  in  one  man's  hand  and  eye.  If 
he  drove  straight  down  to  them  he  would  only 
push  them  under,  and  if  he  broke  in  above  them 
the  tide  would  set  him  down  upon  them  in  like 
disaster.  So  with  a  curving  sweep  of  his  boat, 
which  his  soul  measured,  he  drove  round  them 
down-stream,  swift  as  the  wind,  and  into  the 
wind's  eye,  letting  go  his  mainsail  on  a  run,  until 
the  boat's  headway  brought  her  close  to  the 
edge  where  the  two  black  masses  stayed  them- 
selves. 

Then  John  Walker  bent  steady  over  the  boat 
side  and  seized  the  poor  hand  clutching  at  the  ice. 
And  then,  as  God  willed  and  man  wrought,  two 
human  creatures,  man  and  woman,  came  forth 
from  the  gates  of  death  and  were  helped  on 
board.  Edward  Vaughn  had  yet  his  voice  and 
his  brain,  and  still  meant  to  live  and  save. 

"Take  off  your  coat  and  wrap  it  round  her," 
he  said.  It  was  done. 

"  Now  give  me  your  sheath  knife ;  quick,  man." 
He  cut  off  his  skates,  and  hers  also,  covering  the 
feet  with  the  only  bit  of  canvas  at  hand.  Then 
he  sprung  to  the  boat's  bow,  and,  holding  by  the 
mast,  searched  the  situation.  Over  the  snow  on 
the  hillside  he  saw  men  running, —  woodchoppers 


Water  Again.  413 

who  had  seen  the  danger  and  were  coming.  Ah, 
God,  if  it  should  be  too  late  ! 

"  Forward  here,  man,  help  me  unship  this  mast. 
Throw  it  over  the  side  towards  the  shore,  sail  and 
all.  It  is  death  in  this  boat,  death  to  the  woman 
there.  Be  quick."  So  the  mast  fell  on  the  ice 
with  a  crash. 

The  men  from  the  shore  were  approaching. 
"  Bring  all  the  fence  rails  you  can  find ;  the  ice  is 
thin ;  bring  them  quick."  So  the  men,  a  half  a 
dozen  or  so,  came  tumbling  down,  fence  rails  in 
hand.  "  Quick !  lay  them  on  that  sail,"  he 
shouted ;  "  make  a  bridge  !  "  So  they  laid  them. 
"Now,  some  man  of  you  that  dares,  come  over 
and  take  this  woman."  One  came  out  with  care, 
and  Edward  Vaughn  went  back  and  lifted  Lucy 
Farewell,  unspeaking  still,  over  the  boat's  side  to 
the  man,  who  carried  her  ashore. 

"Leave  this  boat;  come  ashore,  quick."  And 
he  leaped  upon  the  bridge  and  followed  the  man 
with  his  burden.  The  rough-handed,  soft-hearted 
farmers,  Farmer  Jones's  people  from  Blackberry 
Hollow,  were  ready  with  their  advices  and  assis- 
tance. "  Have  you  got  a  buffalo  robe  any- 
where ?  " 

"  One  in  that  ere  wagon  yonder,  Squire." 

"Bring  it  and  cover  her  with  it  and  take  her 
home  as  fast  as  your  horse  can  carry  you.  Mind, 
it  is  death  if  you  are  slow." 


414  Water  Again. 

So  Lucy  Farewell  was  covered  in  the  huge, 
shaggy  robe  and  carried  home.  "  Come,  man,  let 
us  go."  One  offered  him  a  coat.  "No,"  he 
answered  hoarsely,  "thanks,  but  I  shall  pull 
through  in  this,"  tugging  fiercely  at  his  sodden 
clothes.  "  I  was  not  made  to  die  by  water.  Let 
us  run,  man,  to  keep  alive  in  this  cursed  frost." 

To  the  astonished  servant  who  opened  the  door 
at  River  Nook  he  said  almost  fiercely,  "  Give  me 
—  some  brandy,  quick !  " 


CHAPTER     XXXVII. 

A   SISTER    OF   MERCY. 

CURIOUSLY  enough,  the  water  spared  Lucy 
Farewell  while  it  smote  Edward  Vaughn.  The 
next  morning  he  woke  with  a  raging  fever,  which 
by  noontime  brought  delirium.  The  doctor,  who 
came  shuffling  in  in  haste,  after  watching  his 
patient  a  little  while  as  the  paroxysms  of  pain 
came  and  went  and  he  grew  more  violent,  shook 
his  head  ominously. 

"  The  brain  is  in  danger,"  he  said  to  the  attend- 
ants, "and  what  besides  it  is  too  soon  to  say. 
In  his  present  state  you  must  have  at  least  two 
good  men  at  hand,  night  and  day,  to  watch  him. 
He  may  try  to  do  almost  anything  —  leave  the 
house,  for  instance,  which  will  be  death, —  or  use 
violence.  Who  is  here  to  take  charge  of  him  ?  " 

"I  will  try,  sir,"  said  John  Walker,  who  had 
kept  by  his  master  ever  since  the  delirium.  "  It's 
hard  for  a  brave  man  to  die  this  way,  Doctor." 

"Exactly.  His  life  depends  on  your  watch, 
my  man.  To-morrow  I  will  see  him  again.  He 
needs  no  medicine  at  present." 

So  Edward  Vaughn  passed  into  the  fever,  long 
and  sore.  Nor  was  the  strong  man  in  his  deli- 


416  A  Sister  of  Mercy. 

rium  easy  to  handle.  He  seemed,  as  he  wandered, 
to  be  rehearsing  events  out  of  his  past  life,  until 
the  simple  folk  about  him  wondered,  and  some- 
times cowered  before  the  fury.  At  such  times  it 
was  only  John  Walker's  voice  and  touch  which 
seemed  to  quiet.  Him,  in  some  vagary  of  his 
brain,  the  sick  man  seemed  to  take  for  some  high- 
bred lady,  so  deferential  and  courteous  was  he 
to  all  he  might  suggest.  So  for  long  days 
and  nights  the  fever  and  the  delirium  held, 
and  his  faithful  watchman  held  too,  sleeping  at 
nights  on  the  rug  at  his  bedside.  Then  at  last 
the  fever  left  him,  and  his  reason  came  back,  and 
he  was  sinking.  The  doctors  consulted.  It  had 
been  rheumatic  fever,  they  agreed,  and  might  have 
touched  the  heart.  At  any  rate,  he  could  now 
move  neither  hand  nor  foot.  If  not  death,  there 
was  danger  of  a  lifelong  paralysis  of  the  whole 
muscular  system.  If  the  man's  constitution  was 
good,  he  might  pull  through ;  but  if  not,  —  the 
doctors  shook  their  heads.  So  for  days  more  he 
hung  between  life  and  death ;  and  when  the  crisis 
passed,  weak  as  a  child,  motionless  almost  as  the 
dead,  he  knew  he  was  to  live. 

The  doctor,  with  his  ruddy,  smiling  face,  came 
in  the  morning  after  the  change. 

"  Very  much  better,  Mr.  Vaughn,  very  much 
better.  Let  me  feel  the  pulse.  Yes,  a  slow  pulse, 
but  a  little  weak." 


A  Sister  of  Mercy.  417 

"Doctor,"  he  said  in  his  languid  way,  "I  am 
better ;  but  it  seems  to  me  as  if  I  could  only 
move  the  muscles  above  my  shoulders.  The  iron 
teeth  have  shut  close  on  me.  How  long  must  I 
lie  here?" 

"  That  would  be  hard  to  say,  Mr.  Vaughn." 

"I  might  lie  here  six  months?" 

"Yes." 

"Or  a  year?" 

"Yes." 

"  Or  forever  ?  " 

"  I  wouldn't  like  to  say  that." 

"  But  come  now  nearer,  please,  where  I  can  see 
your  face."  The  doctor  came  and  bent  over  him. 
"  Now,  Doctor,  don't  flinch,  speak  truth ;  tell  me, 
am  I  a  cripple  for  life  ?  " 

"  I  can't  say." 

"But  what  do  you  think?  " 

It  was  entirely  unprofessional,  in  the  good  doc- 
tor's mind,  to  tell  such  plain  truth  to  an  invalid  ; 
but  the  plaintive  eagerness  of  the  maimed  man 
before  him  wrought  him  to  say  frankly,  "I  fear 
you  will  be." 

"  Thank  you,  Doctor.     But  I  shall  live  ?  " 

"  Oh,  certainly !  perhaps  to  a  green  old  age ;  and 
perhaps,"  measuring  his  words,  "  I  mean  it  is  pos- 
sible 3Tou  may  quite  recover.  There  are  some 
cases  in  the  books  which  look  that  way." 

"Now,  Doctor,  go  and  get  some  breakfast  in  the 


418  A  Sister  of  Mercy. 

dining-room.  I  am  a  thousand  times  obliged  to 
you  for  telling  me  the  fact."  The  doctor  went 
for  his  coffee ;  and  John  Walker,  who  had  heard 
all,  and  had  just  finished  clearing  out  his  two  eyes 
with  his  coat-sleeve,  came  to  the  bedside. 

"  Can  you  turn  me,  John  ?  I  wish  to  look  out 
of  the  window." 

"  Yes,  master."  And  the  strong  arms  went 
under  him,  moving  gently  as  a  mother's  around 
her  babe. 

Edward  Vaughn  looked  out  of  the  window 
while  the  doctor  ate  breakfast.  When  the  latter 
came  back,  he  had  fallen  into  a  tranquil  sleep. 

So  slowly  Edward  Vaughn  came  back  to  life. 
But  it  was  a  changed  man,  if  not  a  better  one,  who 
confronted  the  same  old  world.  In  the  wreck  which 
he  had  suffered  heretofore  his  superb  physique 
had  remained  with  him.  Now  that  was  gone  also. 
His  will,  which  in  him,  as  in  most  of  us,  was  made 
strong  and  dominant  by  his  bodily  energies,  now 
missed  its  allies,  and  lay  passive  in  him.  All  pas- 
sion, too,  fed  as  it  is  by  the  fumes  of  a  man's 
physique,  under  his  infirmity  withdrew  in  a  new 
reserve.  It  resulted  hence  that  a  new  gentleness 
came  over  him,  not  ethical,  but  physical.  Both 
brain  and  heart  remained  to  him,  but  the  vital 
fires  burned  low  and  tranquil  in  each ;  so  that,  to 
one  watching  the  surface  of  his  gentleness,  he 
might  seem  a  crescent  saint.  Yet  he  was  only  the 
old  man  in  a  new  estate. 


A  Sister  of  Mercy.  419 

But  where  and  how  was  Lucy  Farewell  all  this 
while?  When  that  young  lady,  wrapped  in  her 
buffalo  robe,  was  carried  in  through  Miss  Mary 
Kendrick's  front  door  by  the  two  stalwart  coun- 
trymen who  came  with  her,  Miss  Mary  stood 
aghast  one  single  moment.  Then  her  hands  flew 
faster  than  even  her  tongue,  and  very  soon  quiet 
reigned  at  Lucy  Farewell's  bedside.  The  town, 
of  course,  was  much  moved  at  the  accident ;  and 
when  the  doctor  brought  back  word  of  Edward 
Vaughn's  dangerous  illness  and  his  after-crippled 
state,  not  a  few  said  kind  things,  and  wished  him 
well.  The  poor  folk  whom  he  had  fed  were  espe- 
cially outspoken  ;  and  one  would  either  be  forced 
to  laugh  or  cry  in  telling  how  Granny  Little,  with 
her  two  goats,  for  several  days  besieged  the  back 
doors  of  River  Nook,  clamoring  that  warm  goat's 
milk  was  sovereign  remedy  for  fever,  and  that 
"  the  masther  "  inside  was  welcome  to  all  she  had. 
It  was  an  offer  not  accepted,  and  no  wise  courtly, 
on  its  outside  at  least,  but  yet  entitled  to  the 
ancient  blessing  of  "a  woman  who  hath  done 
what  she  could."  Mr.  Ardenne,  of  course,  had 
gone  to  River  Nook,  and  lately  had  seen  the 
convalescent  several  times. 

Edward  Vaughn  had  inquired  of  him  about 
Lucy  Farewell,  and  expressed  a  desire  to  see  her. 
So  a  day  was  fixed  for  her  to  come  over  with  the 
rector.  When  she  stood  with  Mr.  Ardenne  upon 


420  A  Sister  of  Mercy. 

the  verandah  of  River  Nook,  in  that  pause  be- 
tween the  bell-pull  and  the  opening  door  which 
so  often  has  in  it  for  us  mortals  so  many  omens 
of  good  or  ill,  the  rector  tried  to  put  her  on  her 
guard. 

"  Mr.  Vaughn  is  greatly  changed,"  he  said. 
"I  suggest  that  you  do  not  allow  yourself  to 
show  surprise.  Invalids  are  often  very  sensitive, 
you  know.'' 

"Yes,  sir;  I  shall  remember." 

Lucy  Farewell  was  not  a  beauty ;  her  features 
were  too  small,  and  not  all  ways  regular,  according 
to  Attic  standards;  but  as  she  stood  on  that 
t^randah,  petite,  modest,  simply  dressed  in  black, 
with  the  brown  hair  smooth  over  the  forehead, 
and  the  liquid  brown  eyes  below,  and  the  pure 
round  face  with  roses  on  the  cheeks,  she  was  cer- 
tainly very  charming. 

The  servant  opened  the  door,  and  said,  "Mr. 
Vaughn  is  in  the  library,  and  is  expecting  you. 
Please  walk  this  way."  John  Walker  was  at  his 
post  by  the  library  door  as  usual.  The  library 
itself  was  a  good-sized  room  with  the  usual  array 
of  book-shelves  and  bronzes,  an  open  fire  at  the 
upper  end,  and  a  profusion  of  cut  flowers  in  the 
mantel  vases.  One  side  the  fire  the  invalid  lay 
on  a  lounge,  and  propped  up  with  pillows.  Lucy 
had  taken  the  rector's  offered  arm  at  the  door, 
and  the  two  went  down  the  room  together. 


A  Sister  of  Mercy.  421 

"  I  have  brought  over  with  me  the  young  lady 
I  promised  you,"  Mr.  Ardenne  said;  and  he  felt 
the  hand  on  his  arm  first  tremble,  and  then  clutch 
tight,  as  if  to  keep  from  falling.  For  Lucy  Fare- 
well saw  a  worn  /ace  rigid  as  marble,  whose  very 
smile  had  not  strength  enough  to  creep  much 
below  the  eyes,  and  a  form  under  the  afghan  robe 
as  motionless  as  a  draped  statue  of  stone.  A 
moment's  silence,  and  then  she  went  close,  and 
bent  over  him. 

"  I  have  brought  you  these  violets,"  she  said. 
"  I  am  very  sorry  you  have  been  ill ; "  and  she 
held  out  the  flowers  to  him.  There  was  no  move- 
ment even  of  the  head ;  but  the  voice  out  of  the 
slow-moving  lips  said,  "Pardon  me,  Miss  Fare- 
well :  the  water  has  chilled  my  manners.  I  thank 
you  for  them,  but  I  regret  that  I  cannot  take 
them." 

And  she  realized  then  how  the  man  before  her 
had  turned  to  stone,  almost  all  except  his  soul. 

"  Oh,  never  mind,  then  !  I  will  put  them  in  a 
vase  where  you  can  see  them,  and  where  your 
own  beautiful  flowers  will  not  quite  overshadow 
them."  And  she  very  deftly  put  them  in  a  small 
vase  on  a  table  near  him.  Then  she  went  back  to 
him. 

"•  I  owe  my  life  to  you,"  she  said  simply,  in  a 
low  voice.  "  I  do  not  know  how  to  thank  you.  I 
am  so  sorry  that  you  have  suffered  so,  —  and  to 
save  me." 


42-2  A  Sister  of  Mercy. 

The  marble  statue  did  not  move  ;  but  a  smile 
crept  down  and  round  the  eyelids,  while  the 
mouth  slowly  shaped  itself  to  its  old-time  grim- 
ness.  "  Ah,  yes !  the  water  was  very  cold,  and  I 
spoiled  my  suit  fof  you ;  but  you  didn't  clutch, — 
that  was  death ;  a  brave  little  lady  you  were,  only 
you  go  skating  in  slippery  places,  and  your  friends 
have  to  help  you  out  of  mischief.  You  were  also 
a  very  submissive  little  lady  at  the  river,  and 
did  everything  I  wished.  If  you  only  cultivate 
obedience,  you  will  be  quite  a  paragon  among 
your  sex."  This  side  reference  to  Lucy  Fare- 
well's late  wilfulness  over  the  envelope  and  its 
enclosure  on  Christmas  Eve  that  lady  did  not 
choose  to  recognize. 

"I  hope  you  will  soon  be  in  health  again." 

The  lips  of  the  statue  closed  tight  again,  and 
at  last  said  slowly,  "  The  doctor  don't  think  so. 
He  says  I  am  likely  to  last  this  way  a  lifetime. 
It  don't  matter."  (All  this  in  a  very  impersonal 
tone,  as  though  he  spoke  of  some  one  else.) 

"  Oh,  I  can't  believe  that !  I  am  sure  you  will 
be  better." 

"Perhaps,  but  never  mind  that  now.  Your 
standing  tires  me.  Will  you  be  so  kind  as  to 
bring  a  chair  and  sit  where  I  can  see  you,  so  as  I 
can  see  the  fire  yonder,  an  old  friend  of  mine,  so 
very  cheerful?  I  envy  its  free  motion  as  I  lie 
here." 


A  Sister  of  Mercy.  423 

So  she  brought  a  chair  and  set  it  as  he  wished. 

"  Yes,"  the  motionless  marble  went  on,  while 
the  smile  flickered  around  the  eyes,  "a  lady  in 
black,  with  a  white  collar  about  her  throat  —  an- 
tagonisms in  dress  or  life  are  strong,  you  know; 
black  you  wore  down  the  river  —  quite  a  Sister  of 
Charity  you  are,  especially  as  you  are  so  obedient. 
Remember,  please,  you  are  to  take  me  quite  as 
you  do  the  other  sick  folk  I  hear  of  your  visiting. 
I  shall  expect  you  to  come  and  see  me  as  often  as 
you  do  Mother  Walker.  There  is  rio  reason,  is 
there,  why  a  man  with  a  bank  account  should 
fare  worse  at  your  hands  than  one  who  hasn't  ?  " 

"Why  not  let  that  all  go  till  another  time 
when  you  are  stronger  ?  and,  as  you  are  pleased 
to  take  me  for  a  Sister  of  Charity,  please  tell  me 
what  I  can  do  to  make  you  more  comfortable." 

"Exactly  what  you  are  doing, —  sitting  in  that 
chair  where  I  can  see  you,  and  talking  to  me. 
Only  you  might  call  John  Walker  at  the  door 
there.  My  head  is  complaining  of  these  pillows ; 
and  perhaps,  if  they  had  tongue,  they  would  com- 
plain of  my  head,  —  in  a  cross-action,  as  the  law- 
yers phrase  it.  Call  John." 

"  Yes,  but  a  Sister  of  Charity  ought  to  do  that 
herself.  Let  me  try."  And  so  with  a  woman's 
deftness  she  managed  to  smooth  and  arrange  the 
pillows  under  the  head  of  marble,  to  its  liking. 

"  Thank  you  ;  that  is  much  easier." 


424  A  Sitter  of  Mercy. 

Then  Mr.  Ardenne,  who  had  been  amusing 
himself  by  looking  over  the  stray  books  with 
their  illustrations,  on  the  tables,  came  round  to 
the  two. 

"  I  suggest  that  our  first  call  be  not  so  long  as 
to  tire  our  friend.  Perhaps  we  had  better  go 
now." 

"  But  you  must  have  lunch  first.  A  good 
lunch  is  sure  to  fill  out  lean  manners,  and  I  am 
only  a  sorry  host  at  best.  The  fact  is,  as  I  lie 
here  I  enjoy  all  life  and  motion  more  than  ever ; 
and  it  would  be  a  comfort  to  see  you  eat  lunch." 

So  the  invalid's  whim  was  gratified.  The  ser- 
vants brought  in  lunch,  which  was  served  on  the 
study  table. 

"  Now,  Miss  Farewell,  you  must  preside,  and  see 
that  these  men  have  put  things  right,  and  if  they 
haven't,  give  your  orders.  No  man,  in  my  judg- 
ment, can  ever  learn  to  set  a  table."  So  Miss 
Lucy  gave  a  few  touches  of  her  woman's  skill  to 
certain  glass  and  napkins,  and  then  sat  down  at 
the  cheerful  table,  facing  Edward  Vaughn.  But 
however  bright  it  was  at  table,  it  was  quite  dreary- 
seeming  in  his  corner,  Lucy  saw ;  so  that  after  a 
little  she  could  not  refrain  from  saying,  "But 
what  are  you  going  to  have  for  lunch  ?  " 

"I?  —  well,  just  a  trifle  more  of  your  society, 
and  perhaps  a  glass  of  sherry." 

"  The  sherry  you  shall  have  at  once  ;  "  and  she 


A  Sister  of  Mercy.  425 

brought  a  wine-glassful,  and  held  it  out  to  him 
—  forgetting.  The  shadow  of  that  act  fell  upon 
the  marble  face,  which  now  showed  pain  of  the 
rigid  and  hopeless  sort. 

"Pardon,  Miss  Farewell.  I  am  past  drinking 
alone.  Some  Sister  of  Mercy  must  assist." 

"  Ah,  yes !  I  see :  such  a  patient  child  should  be 
well  cared  for."  So  she  brought  a  napkin  from 
the  table,  and  very  gently  tucked  it  about  his 
throat,  and  then  with  a  steady  hand  gave  him  his 
wine.  Then  she  went  back  to  her  lunch,  which 
soon  concluded. 

"  I  hope  to  see  this  Sister  of  Charity  often  come 
in  with  you  through  that  door,  Mr.  Ardenne," 
the  invalid  said  as  his  guests  bade  him  good-by, 
"  You  both  of  you  can  do  a  deal  of  living  for  me, 
and  just  at  present  I  can  do  the  dying  for  the 
whole  town.  At  least  it  feels  so."  And  Edward 
Vaughn  lived  on,  with  the  iron  teeth  of  his  fate 
shut  tight  upon  him. 


CHAPTER     XXXVIII. 

HOME    AGAIN. 

VICTORY  comes  late,  or  it  comes  laden. 

There  is  a  time,  in  the  early  spring  of  our  tem- 
perate zone,  when  the  earth  shows  exhausted  by 
the  frost  in  that  profound  sleep  under  its  dead 
grasses  from  which  no  sun  seems  potent  enough 
to  wake  it.  It  is  the  day  before  the  coming  of 
those  Southron  birds  which  make  our  forest  music 
later  on,  when  the  ice-gorge  dams  up  the  rivers, 
and  Nature,  sere  and  pale,  is  waiting  for  some- 
thing. It  seems  the  world's  three-days'  grave- 
sleep  before  its  resurrection. 

The  sun  had  brought  Aubrey  Parish  so  far 
towards  the  violets  011  the  night  of  that  day 
when  Mr.  Ardenne  had  been  making  his  Lent 
calls  on  his  parishioners.  As  he  returned  across 
the  Common,  late  and  tired,  to  the  rectory,  he 
stopped ;  it  may  be  quite  by  an  accident.  Below 
him  were  the  white  houses  of  the  town,  dim  in 
the  darkness.  Overhead  were  pale  stars,  while 
the  swollen  streams  were  moaning  in  the  glen 
under  the  pines.  He  looked  round  the  horizon  in 
the  cold  night  air.  "  Where  is  she  ?  "  his  heart 


Home  Again.  427 

asked,  but  there  was  no  answer.  The  whole 
world  seemed  chill  and  sere  to  him  ;  but  his  heart, 
where  the  fires  of  an  old  love  burned,  was  yet 
warm. 

He  had  asked  that  question  a  thousand  times 
before,  and  with  the  same  ill  luck.  Absence, 
sorrow,  submission,  above  all  his  plighted  word 
in  Strasbourg  Minster,  had  kept  him  at  his  post, 
and  would  do  so  to  the  end.  Yet  his  estate  was 
by  no  means  easy,  and  at  times  his  soul  had  risen 
up  in  a  very  storm  of  protest.  Then  it  had  gone 
back  again  to  the  halls  of  peace.  Indeed,  there 
were  times  (and  these  too,  so  far  as  could  be  made 
out  in  after  days,  the  crises  in  Helen  De  Vere's 
life)  when  she  seemed  strangely  near  to  him  (so 
subtle  is  the  psychology  of  souls),  and  when  his 
heart  rose  up  to  greet  the  woman  whom  he  knew 
was  dwelling  beyond  the  sea. 

To-day  the  old  tides  of  memory  had  been  sweep- 
ing through  his  being.  He  had  been  restless,  anx- 
ious, though  nothing  of  disaster,  of  wrhich  he  knew, 
had  happened,  and  yet  he  came  to  the  rectory 
depressed.  Was  it  some  demon  who  would  rend 
before  it  finally  came  out  of  him  ?  Or  was  it  that 
morning  shadow  which  deepens  towards  the  sun- 
rise ?  Even  the  ruddy,  wanton  fire,  as  it  played 
among  the  oak  logs  on  the  library  hearth,  failed 
to  cheer  him.  He  lived  and  was  at  work  among 
a  human  kind  who  honored  him,  and  he  served  a 


428  Home  Again. 

Master  who  gave  rare  wage ;  and  yet  to-night  at 
least  he  felt  himself  alone  in  a  wilderness  without 
bound  or  end,  and  his  heart  hungered  and  bled 
for  the  society  of  one,  and  she  absent  and  some- 
where in  the  great  wild.  So  he  wearied  himself 
with  meditations  until  he  fell  asleep  in  his  chair 
before  the  fire. 

He  must  have  slept  long  and  deep,  for  the 
knocking  at  the  rectory  door  was  loud  to  wake 
him,  and  the  embers  had  fallen  black  upon  the 
hearth  when  he  awoke.  So  he  went  to  the  door. 
"Who's  there?" 

"  Farmer  Jones's  man  from  Blackberry  Hollow." 

The  door  was  opened,  and  the  man  came  in, 
swinging  a  huge  lantern,  and  covered  with  mud. 

"There's  trouble  at  the  Hollow,  parson,  and 
you're  wanted.  Stage-coach  upset  in  the  mud  by 
the  mill,  and  somebody's  hurted;  and  I'm  sent 
arter  you  post-haste.  I  hearn  'em  say  it  is  a 
woman  hurted,  and  is  carried  to  Farmer  Jones's 
house." 

The  rector  was  used  to  sick  calls,  day  or  night ; 
so  he  quickly  put  on  his  overcoat,  and,  with  his 
stout  walking-stick  in  hand,  went  out  with  the 
man  into  the  chill.  There  was  a  reeking  mist 
above  ground,  and  the  full  river  was  raging  as  he 
passed  through  the  covered  bridge  which  crossed 
it,  now  trembling  with  its  fury,  while  the  March 
mud  in  the  road  was  deep.  It  was  a  two-mile 


Home  Again.  429 

walk  to  the  Hollow.  The  man  with  the  lantern 
went  sturdily  before  him,  pointing  out  the  dry 
places,  if  there  were  any ;  and  between  the  two 
they  managed  without  ill  fare  to  reach  the  house. 
Its  lights  loomed  dim  through  the  mist  as  they 
came  up ;  and  moving  lights  among  the  stables  in 
the  rear,  and  men's  voices,  showed  something  un- 
usual going  on  in  this  generally  quiet  neighbor- 
hood. 

Farmer  Jones  was  not  Mr.  Ardenne's  parish- 
ioner, but  he  gave  him  now  a  good,  sturdy  wel- 
come, as  of  a  man  relieved  by  his  coming.  "  Glad 
you've  come,  parson.  Plenty  of  mischief  in  the 
Holler  all  this  blessed  night — stage  upset,  horse 
killed,  driver  broke  his  shoulder-blade,  and  a  woman 
hurted  —  she's  in  t'other  room  there  —  and  we've 
been  up  all  night.  Never  knowed  such  a  night 
at  the  Holler  since  I  wor  born." 

"But  who  is  the  woman  who  is  hurt?" 

"Don't  know,  parson.  They  said  they  were 
friends  of  yourn,  —  t'other  one  said  so  —  the  older 
one." 

"  Friends  of  mine  ?  I  have  no  friends  here 
except  in  the  parish.  How  many  of  them  are 
there  ?  " 

"Two,  I  guess  —  two  women.  They  and  the 
doctor  are  in  t'other  room.  I'll  go  and  tell  'em 
you've  come." 

So  the  kind,  rough  man  hurried  almost  on  tip- 


430  Home  Again. 

toe  across  the  hall,  and  tapped  softly  at  the  door, 
which  was  opened,  and  he  whispered  something. 
The  rector  was  used  to  surprises,  but  somehow 
this    whole   business  was  setting  the  eyes  of  his 
mind  wide  open.     Who  would  come  through  that 
door?     First   came  out  Farmer  Jones's   fat  wife, 
on  tiptoe;  and  behind  her  a  little  lady  with  hair 
white  as  the  driven  snow,  and  wearing  something 
like  a  widow's  cap  over  it,  dressed  in  black,  and 
with  a  little  stoop,  as  she  walked  nervously  behind 
the  fat  housewife    towards    Mr.  Ardenne.     Then 
she  emerged   from   behind  her  screen,  and  went 
close  up  to  him,  holding  out  both  hands,  and  look- 
ing up  at  the  stalwart  man  before  her. 
"Do  you  know  me,  Mr.  Ardenne?" 
He  took  the  hands  in  his,  and  looked;  and  as  he 
looked,  the  sense  crept  over  him  that  he  did  know 
her.     After   long   absences   it  is  the  eyes  which 
we  first  remember,  because  those  mirrors  of   the 
soul  are  least  veiled  with  the  years.    Yes,  he  knew 
them   to   be  the  eyes  of  Miss  Hannah  De  Vere. 
Strong  men  do  not  faint  usually,  yet  their  blood 
can   run   back  chill  to  the  very  heart-fount,  and 
tremble  in  every  pulse-throb,  all  the  same.     Be- 
tween his  recognition  and  his  question  was  but  a 
moment;  yet  in  that  instant  his  soul  lived  ages, 
wrapped  in  a  flame  of   fear.     "  Blessed  be  God ! 
You   are    Miss   Hannah   De  Vere,  but   where   is 
Helen?" 


Home  Again.  431 

Miss  Hannah,  in  all  her  personal  misery,  was 
keeping  her  habit  of  caring  for  the  peace  of 
others;  and  so  now  she  tried  to  arrange  her 
answer  so  as  to  least  hurt  the  man  before  her. 

"  Ah  !  we  were  so  near  you,  and  then  this  dread- 
ful accident.  Helen  is  in  the  other  room.  She  is 
hurt  —  the  doctor  hopes  not  much." 

Men  have  need  to  be  very  strong  sometimes,  as 
this  man  was,  —  strong  with  his  years  of  suffering 
and  submission.  He  had  faced  death  calmly  in 
hovel  and  mansion,  when  the  hearts  of  others 
were  breaking :  why  not  when  death,  perhaps, 
was  coming  to  his  own?  He  said  very  quietly 
then:  "You  are  among  friends.  We  will  do 
everything  we  can  for  you  both.  Where  is  the 
doctor?" 

"In  the  other  room  with  Helen." 

"  Will  you  please  send  him  out  to  me  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  I  will  go  and  watch  while  he  comes  out." 

So  the  dear  little  lady,  faithful  through  the 
weary  years  to  her  one  charge  in  life,  twice  her 
daughter  in  the  love  she  gave  her,  went,  bent 
and  slowly,  back  to  the  sick-room. 

The  doctor  came  out  with  a  very  professional 
air  of  solemn  gravity,  to  be  asked, — 

"  Can  I  see  your  patient  ?  I  wish  it  very  much, 
if  it  won't  harm  her." 

The  doctor  hesitated.  "  You  know  a  sick-room 
as  well  as  I,  Mr.  Ardenne.  The  fact  is,  I  don't 


432  Home  Again. 

know  whether  it  will  do  or  not.  It  is  a  peculiar 
case.  The  shock  of  the  accident  has  affected  the 
lady's  nervous  system,  and  there  may  be  danger 
to  the  brain.  She  is  wandering  IIOAV.  What  she 
needs  is  quiet :  anything  that  would  excite  her 
would  be  bad.  Your  going  in  would  be  an  experi- 
ment, anyway.  Judge  for  yourself." 

"Well,  doctor,  I  will  go."  And  the  two  went 
very  quietly  into  the  sick-room.  It  was  but  a  few 
steps  they  had  taken,  yet,  for  one  man,  they  were 
bridging  over  the  all  of  his  "  had  been  "  with  the 
all  of  his  "to  be."  The  room  itself  was  the  same 
where  the  wedding  of  Farmer  Jones's  daughter 
had  been,  as  heretofore  described;  and  on  one  side 
of  it,  as  seen  by  the  dim  light  of  the  oil  lamps, 
the  patient  was  lying  on  a  low  lounge,  dressed  in 
her  travelling  suit,  just  as  she  had  been  brought 
in  from  the  accident. 

The  two  men  walked  noiselessly  across  the  room 
to  where  Miss  Hannah  sat  watching;  and  the  min- 
ister bent  down  his  head  and  looked,  —  looked 
without  words  and  with  his  soul.  The  face  was 
flushed,  and  the  eyes  wandered,  and  the  years  had 
made  more  matronly ;  but,  living  or  dying,  she 
was  the  same  to  him  —  his  for  ever  and  ever. 

The  brown  hair  he  knew,  and  the  taper  fingers 
of  the  little  hand,  as  it  lay  so  restless  and  yet  aim- 
less on  the  travelling  shawl  which  covered  her. 
He  took  that  hand  in  his  and  knelt  low  down 


Home  Again.  433 

beside  her.  Was  the  cup  at  the  lip  to  be  shattered 
after  all  ?  Would  the  tide  bear  her  across  a  wider 
sea  than  that  which  she  had  crossed  to  him?  Was 
it  the  sunset  behind  clouds,  with  the  chill  night 
covering  forever?  Then  he  prayed  as  a  strong 
man  does,  not  as  when  his  ship  goes  down  in  the 
last  plunge,  but  as  when  his  very  soul  seems  fall- 
ing in  ruins,  and  yet  knows  that  it  cannot  cease  to 
be  —  prayed,  not  that  his  own  will,  but  that  Better 
Will,  might  be  done  on  earth  as  it  is  in  heaven, 
even  if  the  bitter  cup  did  not  pass.  Then,  after 
a  while,  he  spoke  to  her  and  called  her  by  her 
name.  The  wandering  eyes  opened  wider,  and 
looked  an  instant  at  him,  and  then  relapsed  into 
the  old  uncertainty.  But  one  thing  was  plain, — 
his  presence  there  was  soothing  her:  she  grew 
more  quiet.  Yet  occasionally  her  wandering 
mind  spoke  words.  He  bent  over  close  to  her, 
and  listened.  So  far  as  the  words  cohered,  they 
seemed  to  be  about  her  present  journey.  He 
caught  the  broken  sentences :  "  The  way  is  so 
long — they  stay  so  late — and  he  expects  us.  Is 
it  to-morrow  that  we  shall  come  home?" 

He  bent  forward,  and  kissed  reverently  the 
flushed  forehead.  The  last  kiss  before  had  been 
in  a  Chester  churchyard.  Then  he  bent  still 
lower,  and  with  his  mouth  to  her  ear  spoke  low 
and  gently :  "  Peace,  my  child !  you  have  come 
home.  I  am  Frederic  Ardenne ;  you  are  my  own 


434  Home  Again. 

dear  wife  whom  God  gave  me.  I  am  here  beside 
you.  You  are  safe  at  last." 

The  hands  were  actually  growing  quiet;  and 
the  eyes,  closing  themselves,  ceased  to  wander. 
She  even  seemed  to  be  listening  —  to  the  voice  at 
least,  if  not  the  words. 

Then  he  went  on:  "There  was  once  a  poor 
child  in  Chester  Close,  who  loved  a  man  who  loved 
her.  And  then  evil  things  parted  them  ;  yet  they 
had  promised  each  other  to  be  true  and  strong, 
and  God  heard  them.  Then  she  went  away  —  far 
off  to  strange  lands ;  and  he  stayed  and  waited  — 
long,  long  years;  waited  and  toiled  and  prayed. 
And  now  she  has  come  back  to  him,  and  he  is 
telling  her  the  old,  old  story,  and  she  is  listening 
to  his  voice ;  and  God  is  hearing  his  prayers  for 
her ;  and  she  must  be  quiet  and  sleep." 

She  was  now  certainly  listening.  Even  the 
doctor,  with  some  big  tears  in  his  eyes,  wondered 
at  the  man's  singular  power  to  soothe  that  wan- 
dering intellect.  She  turned  her  face  to  his,  and 
looked  —  a  steady  look;  and  as  she  looked,  a 
faint,  conscious  smile,  sweet,  pure  as  an  angel's, 
suffused  her  whole  face.  Reason  had  come  back 
to  its  throne  again.  Thanks  be  to  God ! 

Then  he  kissed  her  again,  and  said,  "  You  must 
go  to  sleep  now,  my  child." 

There  was  no  answer,  but  the  little  hand  in  his 
pressed  his  in  a  silent  recognition.  Then,  gently 


Home  Again.  435 

as  a  woman,  he  smoothed  with  his  hand  again  and 
again  the  brown  hair  over  the  forehead,  until  she 
fell  into  a  deep,  gentle  sleep. 

He  left  her,  with  Miss  Hannah  watching. 

"  The  danger  is  past,"  the  doctor  said.  "  You 
have  done  more  than  medicine.  You  should  turn 
doctor,  parson." 

"  Tell  the  elder  lady,  Mr.  Jones,"  Mr.  Ardenne 
said  as  he  went  away,  "  I  shall  come  as  early  as  I 
can  this  morning,  and  you  must  keep  the  house 
very  quiet.  Any  noise  is  dangerous  to  the  sick 
person." 

"  I  will  do  that  thing,  parson.  Not  a  cock  shall 
crow  if  I  can  help  it." 


CHAPTER     XXXIX. 

MISS   MARY   KENDRTCK. 

WHEN  Helen  De  Vere  woke  from  her  long 
sleep  it  was  late  morning.  She  looked  round 
Farmer  Jones's  quaint,  rambling  best  room  with 
its  litter  of  would-be  finery,  and  said  to  the  pa- 
tient watcher  beside  her, 

"  Where  am  I,  Auntie  ?  " 

"  Safe  in  Aubrey  Parish,  my  dear." 

"  Has  there  been  an  accident  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  dear ;  and  you  were  brought  into  this 
house  close  by,  where  you  now  are  quite  yourself 
again." 

Helen  seemed  to  fall  into  thought  a  little  and 
then  said,  "  Auntie,  I  had  such  a  beautiful  dream. 
I  thought  Mr.  Ardenne  was  here,  and  kissed  me  — 
I  feel  it  now, —  and  told  me  about  Chester  and 
our  old  life  there,  and  bade  me  go  to  sleep.  Is  it 
not  curious,  Auntie  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Ardenne  has  been  here,  my  child." 

"  What !  in  this  very  room  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  And  has  seen  me  ?  " 

"Yes." 


Miss  Mary  Kendrick.  437 

"  And  I  didn't  know  it,  but  thought  I  dreamed. 
Where  is  he,  Auntie  ?  " 

"  Gone  home.  He  will  come  back  by  and  by, 
and  will,  no  doubt,  see  you  if  you  are  strong 
enough  to  endure  the  excitement.  The  doctor 
says  we  must  keep  you  very  quiet." 

"  Oh,  Auntie !  I  am  quite  myself  again.  Did  he 
say  '  this  morning  ? ' ' 

"  Yes,  my  child." 

Meanwhile  Mr.  Ardenne  was  at  his  work.  No 
king  after  the  victory  of  a  new  crown  ever  went 
back  to  his  tents  with  a  more  bounding  energy  of 
triumph  than  he  strode  through  the  March  mud 
of  the  lane  which  led  from  Blackberry  Hollow 
to  the  rectory.  He  had  seen  her.  And  he  had 
work  on  his  hands  too.  He,  who  had  spent  his 
life  caring  for  others,  would  now  take  good  heed 
to  his  own.  The  old  military  blood  in  him  rose 
to  decide.  They  could  not  come  to  the  rectory 
for  reasons.  "Where  then  ?  The  one  house  in  the 
parish  where  he  would  ask  admission  was  Miss 
Mary  Kendrick's.  So  that  lady  was  much  sur- 
prised, at  a  rather  early  morning  hour,  by  the 
vigorous  clamor  of  the  bright,  brass  knocker  on 
her  front  door.  Then,  with  a  muttered  ejacula- 
tion against  people  so  unreasonable  as  to  go  round 
disturbing  their  peaceful  neighbors  at  such  a 
heathenish  time  of  day,  she  came  down  in  a  wrap- 
per, and  opened  the  door  to  let  in  Mr.  Ardenne. 


438  Miss  Mary  Kendrick. 

"  Why,  parson  !  is  my  house  afire,  or  your  cook 
dead,  that  you  are  up  so  early? " 

"  Nothing  of  the  sort.  But  let  me  come  in,  and 
I  will  tell  you." 

"  You  may  come  in  if  you  like,  but  there's  not 
a  fire  lighted  in  my  house ;  you'll  get  a  cold  wel- 
come. You  may  as  well  come  into  the  parlor." 

"  Now,  then,  Miss  Mary,"  he  said  when  she  had 
located  him  in  that  best  of  her  rooms,  standing 
up  in  his  overcoat  for  the  cold,  "  I  have  often 
asked  you  favors  for  others,  and  now  I  want  a 
favor  for  myself." 
•"What  is  it,  parson?" 

"This.  Strange  things  have  happened  in  this 
parish  since  the  sun  went  down.  A  lady  to 
whom  I  was  long  ago  engaged  to  be  married  — 
an  English  lady  with  her  aunt  —  was  on  her  way 
to  me,  was  thrown  from  the  stage-coach,  which 
broke  down  in  Blackberry  Hollow,  and  hurt, —  I 
don't  know  how  much.  They  are  now  at  Farmer 
Jones's  across  the  river,  not  exactly  the  place  for 
them  to  stay.  I  want  you  to  take  them  in  as 
soon  as  they  are  able  to  move.  Will  you  ? " 

Now,  Miss  Mary  was  not  one  of  those  desic- 
cated maidens  of  Aubrey  Parish  who  had  fondly 
cherished  the  delusion  that  some  day  it  would 
be  their  mission  to  be  mistress  in  St.  Clement's 
rectory,  and  so  there  were  no  personal  regrets  in 
the  astonishment  which  her  rector's  words  created 


Miss  Mary  Kendrick,  439 

in  her  honest  soul.  Yet  she  meditated.  It  was 
about  the  condition  of  her  house,  and  not  his  per- 
turbation of  mind,  however.  There  had  been  no 
spring  cleaning ;  and  strangers,  and  women  at 
that !  What  a  challenge  to  any  housekeeper,  like 
her,  it  was !  Miss  Mary  had  a  habit,  when  things 
were  badly  mixed,  to  begin  at  the  hind  end  of 
affairs,  and  to  veil  her  final  "  Yes  "  with  several 
undoubted  difficulties. 

First  of  all  she  aired  her  astonishment. 

"Well,  I  never  would  have  thought  it!  I 
always  supposed  that  you  were  a  bachelor  for  life, 
and  had  taken  some  silly  vow  not  to  marry,  and 
so  make  one  more  old  maid  to  keep  cats.  My 
house  is  all  to  wrongs  at  present, —  not  a  panel 
scoured  this  spring.  I  had  rather  have  ten  men, 
than  one  woman,  living  in  my  house.  A  woman 
is  always  mousing  round  to  find  cobwebs  and 
discover  a  patch  in  the  table-cloth,  and  all  that. 
Men  have  something  else  to  do.  Besides,  how  can 
these  English  folk  get  along  with  me  ?  How  do 
I  know  what  they'll  want  to  eat  and  drink,  or 
whether  they  dine  at  midnight  ?  And  this  house 
is  too  old,  to  say  nothing  of  its  mistress,  to  learn 
new  manners.  But"  —  and  here  she  took  a  long 
pause  before  coming  to  her  conclusion  —  "but 
they  can  come,  all  the  same,  as  soon  as  they  like, 
and  I'll  do  the  best  I  can.  Only  they  must  put 
up  with  what  they  get.  They'd  better  have  the 


440  Miss  Mary  Kendrick. 

two  front  rooms,  I  reckon ;  and  there's  plenty  of 
beds  up-stairs."  Miss  Mary  had  not  only  said 
"  Yes,"  but  was  already  beginning  to  carry  it  into 
effect. 

"I  knew  your  kind  heart,"  Mr.  Ardenne  said, 
to  her  half-soliloquy.  "  I  am  going  over  to  the 
Hollow  as  soon  as  possible,  and  may  bring  them 
here  before  dinner,  if  the  young  lady  be  strong 
enough  to  move." 

"But  now,  parson,  we  are  through  business,  I'd 
just  like  to  know  one  thing, —  not  whether  the 
lady's  young  and  beautiful  and  charming ;  no  man 
in  your  case  is  able  to  talk  straight  about  all  that ; 
but  I'd  just  like  to  know  her  name,  so  that  she'll 
not  be  quite  a  ghost  to  me  when  she  comes 
over." 

"  Helen  De  Vere." 

"  Well,  now,  that's  a  sweet  name,  and  sounds  as 
though  it  came  out  of  a  castle.  I  am  sure  I  shall 
fall  in  love  with  her  at  sight." 

"Thank  you,  Miss  Mary.     She  is  a  lady." 

Then  the  rector  left  the  house  to  care  for  his 
own,  further.  Somewhat  later  he  went  over  in  a 
hackney  coach  to  the  Hollow.  On  his  way  he 
met  the  doctor  coming  back.  The  latter  stopped 
his  gig,  and,  rubbing  his  huge  fur  mittens  together 
in  a  sort  of  medical  self-gratulation,  said,  ".Your 
patient  is  quite  herself  again.  The  quickest  out 
of  a  bad  business  I  have  ever  seen  in  all  my  prac- 


Miss  Mary  Kendriek.  441 

tice.     She  was  very  hungry,  and  called  for  break- 
fast, I  hear.     Never  saw  a  case  like  it." 

"  When  can  she  be  moved  without  danger  ?  " 

"  Oh,  any  time !  to-day  if  you  like.  Good- 
morning."  So  the  rector  rode  on  with  a  glad 
heart  to  Farmer  Jones's.  Miss  Hannah  came  out 
into  the  hall  with  a  new  vivacity,  less  bent 
than  the  night  before.  She  told  the  same  story. 
Wonderful  —  Helen  was  up  and  dressed,  quite  in 
health  again.  "She  is  expecting  you." 

Then  they  two  passed  into  Farmer  Jones's  par- 
lor. The  young  woman  who  now  rose  from  her 
chair  to  meet  him  was  stately,  patient,  gentle; 
and  the  eyes  were  steady,  looking  in  his  face. 
And  then?  —  There  are  moments  of  ecstasy  in 
this  life  of  ours  which  no  mortal  poet  can  sing  in 
words,  or  limner  paint  in  colors.  That  power,  per- 
haps, is  reserved  for  another  world  where  progress 
in  high  art  has  no  limit. 

There  were  many  things  said  in  a  very  quiet 
way  between  the  three.  Miss  Hannah  herself 
was  given  to  details,  and  was  of  an  inquiring 
mind.  Amongst  other  things  she  asked,  "Do 
they  fry  everything  in  this  country?  The  steak 
was  fried  this  morning." 

The  rector  laughed.  "Nearly  everything,  among 
the  country  folk,"  he  said.  "I  am  sorry  if  you 
made  a  poor  first  breakfast  in  my  parish.  There 
are  three  things  which  an  old  traveller  can  call 


442  Miss  Mary  Kendrick. 

for  in  this,  or  almost  any  country,  which  are  sure 
to  be  clean,  —  boiled  eggs,  potatoes  baked  in  their 
jackets,  and  milk  perhaps.  But  come,  now;  I 
have  a  carriage  at  the  door,  and  have  found  a 
home  for  you  near  me.  I  will  tell  you  the  rest  as 
we  are  going." 

"How  very  kind;  and  so  soon!  How  happy  we 
are,  Auntie ! " 

So  their  travelling-packs  were  soon  collected, 
and  they  went.  Miss  Hannah  had  a  quiet  alter- 
cation with  Farmer  Jones  in  the  hall-way  over  a 
couple  of  broad  pieces  of  gold  which  she  offered 
and  he  vigorously  declined.  Her  woman's  will 
won,  however;  and  while  he  was  inspecting  the 
curious  legend  stamped  upon  the  British  coin  his 
guests  drove  away. 

They  had  rather  a  warm  reception  at  Miss 
Mary's  when  they  got  there.  First  of  all,  that 
housewife  had  opened  all  the  blinds  of  her  two 
front  rooms,  to  let  in  as  much  of  the  sunshine 
straggling  round  the  parish  as  chose  to  enter. 
Next,  it  looked  as  though  she  had  built  a  blazing 
wood  fire  in  every  fireplace  of  the  house,  to  make 
things  cheerful ;  and  when  she  stood  on  her 
front  doorstep  to  receive  her  guests,  her  very  wig 
seemed  to  shed  down  a  welcome.  "  The  parson's 
friends  are  mine,"  she  said,  as  she  shook  hands 
with  a  vigor  which  surprised  the  muscles  of  poor 
Miss  Hannah's  right  arm.  "  Glad  to  see  you,  as  if 


Miss  Mary  Kendrick.  443 

I  had  been  expecting  you  both  a  six-mouth."  So 
the  warm-hearted  hostess  went  bustling  round,  and 
her  guests  were  soon  ensconced  in  their  comfort- 
able quarters.  Helen  she  seemed  to  take  for  her 
god-daughter ;  and  as  for  Miss  Hannah  De  Vere, 
when  she  heard  of  her  last  night's  vigils,  she 
insisted  that  she  should  take  a  big  dose  of  sleep 
forthwith.  In  fact,  that  lady  just  escaped  being 
put  to  bed  perforce.  Then  she  proceeded  to  ask 
after  their  trunks.  They  were  on  their  way,  and 
ought  to  reach  there  this  very  afternoon.  Mr. 
Ardenne  was  going  to  look  after  them.  Then 
she  excused  herself,  to  look  after  dinner ;  and  the 
rector  said  to  her  at  the  door  as  he  went  away, 
"  Of  course,  this  coming  of  our  friends  will  make 
a  deal  of  talk  in  the  parish.  Just  say,  please, 
if  people  ask  you,  exactly  what  I  told  you  this 
morning  about  them." 

"Yes,  parson,  some  folks  in  this  parish  would 
split  if  they  couldn't  talk ;  and  I  sometimes  wish 
they  couldn't.  But  I'm  sure  every  one,  almost, 
will  rejoice  with  you,  Lent  or  no  Lent.  I'd  like 
to  see  anybody  come  round  here  finding  fault ! 
They'd  go  off  with  a  flea  in  their  ear,  I  can  tell 

you." 

Mr.  Ardenne  was  a  busy  man  all  that  day,  but 
the  new  joy  welling  forth  in  his  heart  like  a  strong 
tide  overswept  and  full  filled  everything.  Aubrey 
Parish  had  become  a  palace,  and  he  was  a  king 


•444  Miss  Mary  Kendrick. 

in  his  happiness.  It  had  been  before  a  palace 
where  he  had  served  his  King,  and  now  the  King 
had  blessed  him  with  a  full  store. 

It  seemed  but  moments  when  St.  Clement's 
bells  rang  for  evening  prayer.  But  there  were 
other  ears  to-night,  in  the  parish,  to  hear  their 
invitation. 

"What  are  those  bells,  Miss  Kendrick?"  Helen 
asked. 

"  That  is  evening  prayer,  my  dear.  " 
"  I  think  I  am  strong  enough  to  go,  Auntie." 
"  Yes,  my  dear ; "  and  in  due  time  three  ladies 
out  of  Miss  Mary's  house  were  walking  across  the 
Common  to  St.  Clement's.  The  congregation  was 
sparse  to-night,  so  busy  are  even  Church  folk  with 
this  world,  while  they  neglect  the  next,  and  the 
pews  looked  bare  and  cold  as  they  came  in.  In 
other  lands  two  had  worshipped  where  age  had 
sanctified  and  opened  wide  its  stored  hand  to 
beautify,  and  here  everything  was  so  new  and 
plain.  But  his  voice  was  reading  the  old  prayers, 
after  all  that  had  been,  here  at  his  post,  and  they 
were  home  at  last.  It  was  to  them  the  one  ser- 
vice over  all  the  globe ;  and  the  Faith,  older  than 
they,  had  travelled  before  them  to  the  West. 

They  waited  after  service  for  the  rector,  who 
walked  back  with  them  to  Miss  Mary's,  where  he 
was  to  take  his  tea.  And  after,  in  Miss  Mary's 
parlor,  before  the  cheerful  fire,  they  talked  of  the 


Miss  Mary  Kendrick.  445 

old  Chester  days,  when  they,  all  three,  were 
younger.  "  Some  time  I  will  tell  you  of  our  life 
on  the  Continent,"  Helen  said.  "I  am  not  quite 
fit  to-night ;  "  and  a  half-shudder  showed  itself,  as 
though  there  was  just  a  trifle  of  pain  in  her  heart 
somewhere. 

Miss  Hannah  had  evidently  been  making  good 
use  of  her  eyes  since  she  came  into  her  new  home. 
While  Miss  Mary  was  out  a  while,  on  her  mission 
of  next  day's  breakfast,  Miss  Hannah  said :  "  Your 
parishioner,  Mr.  Ardenne,  strikes  me  as  a  great 
novelty.  I  have  never  seen  one  like  her  in  Eng- 
land. She  takes  care  of  her  own  house,  which  is 
as  clean  as  if  there  was  no  such  thing  as  dust,  and 
yet  she  has  a  pile  of  magazines  and  new  books 
on  her  table  here.  She  is  free  of  speech  and  self- 
respecting,  and  yet  shows  a  wonderful  faculty  for 
work  —  the  energy  of  half  a  dozen  women  about 
her  house;  and  she  has  some  fine  old  silver, 
and  such  a  store  of  linen.  She  strikes  me  a 
little  like  our  own  English  country  people,  only 
with  a  French  vivacity  to  her,  somehow.  Pray 
tell  me  what  she  is,  exactly,  in  this  American  life 
of  yours." 

"  Oh !  "  he  said,  laughing,  "  she  is  an  American 
citizen ;  and  here  every  one  is  a  king  or  queen, 
as  the  case  may  be.  This  parish  was  settled  by 
Oliver  Cromwell's  people — good,  sturdy,  wilful 
English  country  folk,  and  London  tradesmen  in 


446  Miss  Mary  Kendrick. 

a  small  way.  Climate  and  education  have  given 
them,  as  you  say,  a  French  tinge  to  their  manners. 
But  at  bottom  they  are  Old  England  —  as  some  of 
the  furniture  in  this  very  room  shows." 

The  rector  went  home  in  the  early  evening,  for 
Miss  Mary  allowed  no  late  hours  in  her  house. 
She  showed  him  to  the  door. 

"  Have  the  trunks  come,  Miss  Mary  ?  " 

"  Trunks !  A  cart-load  of  them.  It's  lucky  I 
had  a  garret.  I  should  think  they  had  brought 
all  their  furniture  in  them." 

Then  she,  too,  had  a  word  of  criticism :  "  If 
every  English  girl  is  such  a  blessed  one  as  this 
here,  I'm  sorry  I'm  not  a  man  to  go  and  marry 
one  at  sight.  The  aunt  is  a  little  stiff." 


CHAPTER    XL. 

AN   INVASION   OF    THE   RECTOEY. 

MEANWHILE  rumors  about  the  new  arrivals  in 
Aubrey  Parish  multiplied  themselves  in  an  ever- 
increasing  ratio.  They  ran  all  the  way  from  two 
Indian  princesses  to  two  women  come  to  town  to 
sell  goods  by  sample.  This  last  report  came  from 
the  simple  remark  of  the  man  who  hauled  the 
trunks  that  there  was  enough  in  them  by  weight 
to  set  up  a  variety  store.  As  this  was  a  com- 
munity given  to  trade,  the  latter  rumor  gained 
some  credence ;  but  Miss  Mary,  with  divers 
emphatic  shakes  of  her  wig,  soon  set  matters 
right,  and  it  came  to  be  known  that  the  rector 
had  had  a  windfall  in  the  shape  of  two  very  old 
and  dear  friends  out  of  England. 

Nor  should  it  pass  without  apology  to  the  reader 
that  in  the  last  chapter  Lucy  Farewell  was  quite 
left  out  of  the  rejoicing.  The  fact  is,  that  young 
lady's  modesty  was  quite  hid  behind  Miss  Mary's 
bustle,  and  she  ventured  only  the  first  day  to  mind 
her  own  affairs  in  a  strict  retirement.  But  very 
soon  —  in  fact,  sooner  than  this  late  apology  —  she 
had  come  to  be  on  right  good  terms  with  the  two 


448  An  Invasion  of  the  Rectory. 

English  women,  especially  with  Helen.  Indeed, 
they  two  were  after  the  same  pattern  of  Church- 
women,  yet  with  a  difference.  Both  were  of  that 
passive  nature  whose  strength  is  in  holding  fast  its 
inner  mind  loyal  to  duty,  and  an  abstinence  from 
any  stormy  forth-putting  of  its  will  towards  any, 
—  an  atmosphere  in  calm.  Yet  Helen  had  the 
stronger  will  because  she  had  known  the  bitterer 
struggle.  Both  were  young,  but  Helen  was  the 
elder,  not  so  much  in  years  as  in  those  wider 
experiences  which  had  come  to  her  in  them,  and  in 
a  civilization  which  was  also  older  in  its  coloring. 
And  both  were  daughters  of  that  Church  whose 
cultus  of  faith  had  colored  their  lives  into  a 
sweet  simplicity  and  loyalty  that  had  in  it  a  sin- 
gular strength  to  control.  They  two  had  become 
fast  friends  under  Helen's  headship. 

It  was  already  arranged  that  the  wedding  should 
be  celebrated  after  Easter,  and  affairs  went  on 
accordingly.  There  were  surprisingly  few  love 
passages  between  the  rector  and  his  betrothed  in 
the  days  preceding,  —  at  least  few  which  would 
give  stronger  color  to  our  story.  Both  Mr.  Ardenne 
and  Helen,  in  their  years  of  separation,  had  trav- 
elled far  into  another  world  where  there  is  no 
passion  (not  even  of  love)  that  pains;  and  they 
came  back  to  each  other  bearing  a  great  peace 
which  this  world  can  neither  give  nor  take  away. 
The  river  of  their  lives  had  been  divided  into  two, 


An  Invasion  of  the  Rectory.  449 

but  now  flowed  on  as  one  in  a  great,  silent,  blessed 
peace.  Helen  herself  stated  the  case,  perhaps 
better  than  any,  in  answer  to  Miss  Mary's  con- 
fidential remark  one  day  to  her  that  she  had  never 
met  in  all  her  life  so  sensible  a  pair  of  lovers. 

"  We  are  not  exactly  lovers,  Miss  Kendrick." 

"  What,  then,  in  the  world  are  you  ?  "  was  that 
ancient  maid's  retort. 

"We  are  —  yes  —  we  are  two  people  who  have 
so  long  loved  each  other  that  love  has  become  a 
life,  an  estate,  an  old  estate,  so  old  that  it  has 
ceased  to  be  a  passion  ;  it  is  an  existence.  I  look 
at  Mr.  Ardenne  through  ten  years  of  absence  and 
what  they  brought  us ;  and  so  I  suppose  he  looks 
at  me.  We  love  one  another,  but  we  are  not 
exactly  lovers,  Miss  Mary." 

"  All  the  same,  you  are  two  very  sensible  people 
anyhow,  and  I  wish  you  much  joy  to  boot." 

"  Thank  you." 

Helen  rather  surprised  the  rector  at  his  next 
visit  with  a  request.  "  I  wish  you  would  take  me 
with  you,  making  parish  calls." 

"  Do  you  really  wish  it  ?  " 

"  Certainly  I  do.  I  am  to  live  among  this 
people,  and  I  wish  to  learn  their  ways  as  soon  as 
possible.  Let  me  be  Ruth,  and  say,  '  Thy  people 
are  my  people,  and  where  thou  dwellest  I  will 
dwell.' " 

So  next  day  the  two  went  out  making  parish 


450  An  Invasion  of  the  Rectory. 

calls  on  the  poor.  How  proud  of  her  he  was,  and 
how  happy  she  showed  as  they  went  their  round. 
The  novel  country  and  the  houses  surprised  her 
most.  "  How  new  is  everything !  "  she  said ;  "  and 
these  white  houses,  they  look  like  tents,  as  if  the 
frost  might  drive  through  them.  Our  English 
houses  are  stronger  built." 

"  Yet  they  are  very  comfortable,  Helen  ;  and  the 
people  in  them  are  very  self-respectful,  nothing 
cringing,  a  little  egotistic  perhaps.  I  give  you 
advice,  although  perhaps  you  don't  need  it. 
Never  patronize  them.  The  poorest  men  or 
women  born  here  always  put  their  best  foot  for- 
ward (as  the  phrase  is),  feel  themselves  quite  our 
equals,  and  would  be  hurt  if  we  treated  them 
otherwise.  The  emigrants  from  Europe  are  dif- 
ferent." 

"  You  have  forgot,  or  perhaps  I  never  told  you, 
that  on  the  Continent  I  often  went  round  with 
our  clergy  among  the  poor,  and  certainly  there 
they  are  very  different.  I  often  used  to  think  of 
you  at  such  times,  and  wonder  if  you  might  not 
be  doing  the  same  thing  somewhere  in  the  great 
world.  But  how  much  happier  it  is  going  round 
with  you,  dear !  We  love  God  and  all  His  more 
when  we  love  one  another,  and  I  feel  I  can  be 
happy  here  all  my  life." 

The  rector  looked  round  upon  the  happy  face 
beside  him,  and  said  nothing. 


An  Invasion  of  the  Rectory.  451 

So  they  walked  and  chatted  and  visited  together 
all  that  afternoon.  When  they  came  back  to  Miss 
Mary's,  two  were  happy,  and  one  was  very  tired. 

As  long  as  priests  will  marry,  and  women  are 
found  to  wed  with  them,  somebody  must  attend, 
some  time,  to  very  mundane  and  worldly  matters. 
So  it  was  concluded  in  secret  conclave  by  the 
ladies  at  Miss  Kendrick's  that  they  must  make  a 
right  thorough  visitation  and  inspection  of  the 
rectory  before  the  wedding.  And  Miss  Mary 
announced  the  decision. 

"  We  are  coming  over  to  the  rectory  to-morrow 
to  begin  to  put  things  to  rights  before  Easter. 
No  man  ever  could  take  care  of  a  house  by  him- 
self ;  and  that's  one  reason  why  the  Lord  sent  Eve 
to  Adam,  though  Adam  did  treat  her  very  badly 
about  the  apple.  We  don't  want  you  to  interfere, 
or  take  any  trouble,  but  only  let  us  go  round  and 
see  how  things  really  are." 

So  next  morning  three  ladies,  Miss  Kendrick 
ahead,  stood  on  the  rectory  steps  to  find  admission. 

"Where  will  you  begin  your  visitation,"  said 
the  smiling  rector,  "  up  stairs  or  down  ?  " 

Miss  Mary  was  spokesman.  "  Oh !  we'll  go  to 
the  kitchen  first ;  there's  where  the  happiness  of 
a  house  begins,  or  its  misery,  if  there's  bad  bread 
mornings." 

So  they  went  down-stairs  to  find  Sally,  the  half- 
breed  cook  and  maid  of  all  work,  mixed  Indian  and 


452  An  Invasion  of  the  Rectory. 

African,  standing  up  in  the  middle  of  her  fresh- 
washed  floor  in  the  very  neatest  of  kitchens,  and 
trying  to  do  the  honors  with  a  series  of  rather 
awkward  curtsies,  her  eyes  wide  open  to  inspect 
her  guests.  She,  too,  had  heard  that  a  new  mis- 
tress was  coming  to  that  house,  and  in  her  way 
was  bound  to  look  her  over,  and  make  her  own 
conclusions.  So  while  she  kept  her  mouth  shut, 
the  whites  of  her  eyes  grew  crescent  as  she 
watched  Helen.  Miss  Mary,  as  usual,  was  speer- 
ing  round  after  litter  and  cobwebs ;  but  she  was 
obliged  to  say  at  last,  "  Well,  Sally,  you  take  good 
care  of  your  master  here,  and  everything's  as  neat 
as  a  pin  "  (her  favorite  simile  for  tidiness). 

Another  curtsey  from  the  half-breed,  still  eyeing 
Helen. 

"  Will  de  Missus  jes'  look  at  dis  ere  oven?  —  dis 
oven  jes'  gone  and  done  sp'ilt  the  bread,  and  I's 
a'most  mad  at  the  way  it  b'haves  dis  bery  rnorn- 
in'.  Will  Missus  pies  look  at  dis  here  bread." 
And  she  pulled  out  from  under  a  very  white 
cloth  a  big  loaf  of  bread,  a  trifle  burnt,  and 
held  it  out  towards  Helen.  It  has  been  often 
noted  that  dogs  and  children  know  who  is  master 
in  a  house ;  and  Sally,  in  her  own  way,  in  this 
appeal  was  offering  her  allegiance  to  her  coming 
mistress. 

So  Helen  looked  at  the  bread,  and  tasted  a  bit 
of  it.  "  Very  good  bread,  Sally,  light  and  white ; 


An  Invasion  of  the  Rectory.  453 

and  as  to  the  oven,  we'll  have  that  looked  after 
very  soon." 

Sally  made  another  African  curtsey,  and  sub- 
sided. But  that  very  night  she  broke  out  in  con- 
fidence to  one  of  her  gossips,  as  they  two  were 
toasting  themselves  at  the  kitchen  fire. 

"I  tell  you  what,  honey,  dat  ole  maid  'cross  de 
Common,  she  come  in  here  dis  mornin'  smellin' 
round  in  my  kitchen,  and  I's  rite  glad  when's 
she's  done  gone.  But  de  missus,  honey,  I's  bery 
glad  she's  comin';  she  says,  '  Good  bread,  Sally,' 
when  I  shows  her  dat  burnt  lofe  the  oven  sp'iled, 
jes'  like  a  lady,  bless  her  soul !  She's  handsomer 
dan  a  pink,  honey." 

The  ladies  were  shown  over  the  whole  house. 
It  looked,  to  Helen,  accustomed  to  quite  another 
style  of  living,  more  than  a  trifle  bare  and  cold ; 
and  who  could  count  over  the  innumerable  good 
intentions  which  passed  through  her  mind,  to 
reform  and  warm  the  same  into  a  better  estate 
of  cheerfulness  ?  Before  Mr.  Ardenne  opened  his 
study  door  to  them  he  said,  smiling,  "  You  may 
do  exactly  what  you  please,  ladies,  with  the  rest 
of  this  house,  but  I  except  my  library.  Every 
man  of  spirit  should  have  at  least  one  spot  in  his 
own  house  which  he  can  call  his  own,  and  this 
library  is  mine.  It  may  be  a  very  inviting  field 
for  your  labors,  but  I  insist  that  nobody  shall 
meddle  with  my  books  and  papers.  I  say  this 


454  An  Invasion  of  the  Rectory. 

because  a  brother  parson  of  mine  down  the  river 
has  a  wife  who  is  always  putting  things  to  rights, 
as  she  calls  it;  and  so  he  tells  me,  with  a  most 
rebellious  temper,  that  when  he  goes  for  a  paper  it 
takes  him  always  half  an  hour  to  find  it  in  the 
one  huge  pile  that  his  helpmate  has  made  of  all 
his  stray  writings,  calling  that  order.  I  must 
insist  on  this." 

"Is  it  a  den  you  have  got  in  there,"  asked 
Miss  Kendrick  quite  irreverently,  "that  you  are 
so  afraid  of  us  ladies  ?  " 

"  You  can  see  for  yourselves,"  and  they  went 
in.  It  was  a  room  piled  with  books,  and  the 
papers  on  the  study  table  were  a  litter;  and  Miss 
Mary's  fingers,  as  she  looked  round,  actually 
began  to  move  themselves  to  clear  up  that  literary 
de'bris  around  her.  She  contented  herself  with 
the  inner  thought  that  no  sensible  woman  like 
Helen  would  ever  allow  that  mantelpiece  before 
her  to  run  to  such  wildness  as  it  showed  at 
present ;  and  while  she  and  Miss  Hannah  seated 
themselves  by  the  cheerful  fire  to  meditate  upon 
the  magnitude  of  the  work  before  them,  the 
rector  showed  Helen  round  his  library. 

"  Here  I  have  lived,  my  dear,  these  years ;  and 
these  four  walls  and  I  know  one  another  verv 
well.  These  books,  too,  are  old  friends,  most  of 
them,  and  true  ones,  stately,  reverend  souls,  all 
a-row  on  their  shelves,  who  never  chide,  frown  at 


An  Invasion  of  the   Rectory.  455 

me,  or  hurt.  A  man  with  his  books  is  never 
quite  alone ;  and  yet  I  could  read  more  out  of 
them  to-day,  Helen,  than  ever  before.  Don't  you 
know,  it  is  the  sunshine  that  brings  out  the  colors 
in  a  church  window,  not  the  night  shade  ?  " 

"I  will  try  hard  to  be  your  sunshine,"  she 
answered. 

The  minister  was  now  obliged  to  attend  a 
sick  call,  while  the  ladies  stayed  behind  in  consul- 
tation. What  plans  suggested,  and  changes  of 
them ;  even  what  measurements,  and  proposed 
contrasted  colors  for  this  and  that;  what  solemn 
hesitations  and  perplexities  over  questions  of 
household  thrift  and  taste,  —  these  all  may  be  left 
to  the  memory  of  those  who  have  known  a  group 
of  ladies  arranging  a  bride's  house  before  the 
wedding.  Miss  Mary,  on  the  spot,  would  have 
made  a  dead-set  at  the  mantel  before  her ;  but 
Helen  interfered  as  the  coming  mistress,  and 
quieted  her  rancor  against  disorder,  and  her  will 
was  acquiesced  in.  "  You  will  have  to  do  it  your- 
self, then.  No  woman  can  live  long  in  this  house 
with  a  mantel  like  that." 

The  evening  of  the  same  day,  Mr.  Ardenne 
found  himself,  as  usual,  at  Miss  Mary's;  and  after 
tea  Helen  said,  "This  morning  you  showed  me 
some  of  your  treasures  in  your  library.  Now  let 
me  show  you  a  few  of  mine.  The  fact  is,  I  wish 
to  ask  your  advice  about  something."  So,  while 


456  An  Invasion  of  the  Rectory. 

Miss  Hannah  nodded  in  her  chair,  she  brought 
out  divers  boxes  and  packages,  which  they  two 
examined  together,  she  interpreting. 

"These  in  this  box  are  my  mother's  jewels, 
which  I  always  carried  with  me,  because  I  fancied 
I  could  recall  her  as  she  must  have  looked  in 
them,  —  a  few  diamonds,  you  see,  and  cameos,  and 
rings,  rubies  and  emeralds;  a  trifle  out  of  style, 
and  yet  very  precious  to  me  as  hers.  And  here 
are  some  trifles  of  my  own  purchase  as  I  travelled 
round,  —  Florentine  mosaics,  and  my  little  vanities 
of  ornament.  I  bought  them,  thinking,  perhaps, 
that  one  day  you  might  like  them.  You  know  a 
woman  always  dresses  for  the  one  man  she  loves. 
Now,  do  you  think  all  this  vanity?" 

"  Not  at  all,  my  dear.  I  have  always  held  that 
a  woman  should  make  herself  as  beautiful  as  she 
can,  just  as  the  flowers  do.  Beauty  is  the  smile 
of  God  everywhere,  —  not  a  thing  to  be  proud  of 
(the  flowers  have  no  pride),  but  a  thing  to  be 
grateful  for,  and  used  to  make  our  life  purer  and 
better." 

"Then,  since  I  do  not  weary  you,  let  me  show 
you  my  laces ;  though  gentlemen,  perhaps,  are  not 
versed  in  laces.  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  here  is 
a  pile  of  them.  They  are  my  passion,  at  least  in 
dress.  They  are  always  so  cool,  and,  pardon  me, 
so  passionless  and  pure  —  laces  are.  Maybe  you 
don't  understand  that,  but  a  woman  does.  Look ! " 


An  Invasion  of  the  Rectory.  457 

and  she  brought  out  a  medley  of  rare  old  laoes, 
and  spread  them  on  the  table.  "Ah !  but  you  are 
not  looking.  I  weary  you  with  my  chatter." 

"  I  dare  say  they  are  very  fine ;  they  look  so ; 
but  how  should  I  know  anything  about  laces?" 

"I  will  teach  you,  then.  Look  at  this  Chantilly 
lace;  see  how  fine  the  thread  is,  and  each  one  of 
these  little  loops  knotted  or  tied  by  human  fingers  ; 
see  what  a  deal  of  work  goes  into  it.  And  now  I 
spread  it  over  this  white  paper,  you  see  how  ex- 
quisite the  design  is." 

"A  woman  might  wear  a  human  life,  and  a 
weary  one  at  that,  —  man's  or  woman's,  —  over 
her  shoulders  at  an  evening  party,  then,  and  not 
find  it  very  heavy,  Helen?" 

"Perhaps  so — yes  —  if  you  choose  to  see  it  so. 
Only  these  people  get  bread  from  the  very  work  I 
pay  for,  and  my  lace  may  be  a  token  that  some- 
body has  been  fed." 

"  Exactly,  Helen ;  your  social  economy  is  very 
good  for  a  woman.  But,  as  you  may  suppose,  my 
profession  does  not  exactly  favor  luxury  of  any 
sort ;  that  is,  except  it  can  be  shown  that  it  makes 
this  world  better  somehow." 

The  deft  lady  had  been  approaching  her  point 
with  circumspection.  So  she  put  away  the  laces 
and  jewel  boxes,  and  then  came  to  it.  "I  wish 
very  much  to  ask  you  a  question.  You  know 
how  I  have  been  used  to  live  abroad.  Tell  me 


458  An  Invasion  of  the  Rectory. 

exactly  how  you  want  me  to  live  in  this  parish, 
as  your  wife,  I  mean,  —  in  what  style  ?  wear  laces 
and  jewels,  or  not?  I  very  much  fear  to  offend 
your  parish  by  any  style  that  might  show  any 
strong  contrast;  and  yet  you  know,  my  dear, — 
and  I  am  glad  to  tell  you  if  you  don't,  —  I  have  a 
fortune  in  my  own  right." 

A  shadow  passed  over  the  face  of  the  man 
before  her,  and  the  brows  contracted.  He  did 
know  that  fact;  for  had  not  Sir  Chauncey  told 
him  of  it  years  ago  in  Chester  Close,  and  seasoned 
his  information  with  a  most  bitter  taunt  ? 

Helen  saw  the  face,  and  interpreted  it  as  only 
a  woman  can.  She  laid  her  hand  gently  on  his 
arm,  arid  said,  "  Now,  isn't  that  just  a  little  pride — 
sheer  pride,  sir,  in  you,  that  is  giving  pain  ?  Tell 
me  now,  sir,  like  the  reasonable  man  you  are,  will 
you  take  a  woman  who  gives  herself  to  you  in 
marriage,  but  not  her  money?" 

Helen,  whenever  she  became  involved  with  him 
in  old-time  matters,  always  went  back  to  the 
respectful  term  "sir,"  as  had  been  her  wont  in 
childhood. 

"There  is  an  old  hurt  in  all  this  money  matter," 
he  said,  "which  you  need  not  know,  at  least  at 
present.  You  had  better  refer  all  that  to  your 
lawyers." 

"But  I  am  my  own  lawyer,  sir,  at  present,  and 
quite  a  business  woman,  —  a  trunkful  of  law- 


An  Invasion  of  the  Rectory.  459 

papers  are  in  Miss  Mary's  garret,  — and  I  mean,  in 
dealing  with  you,  to  refer  all  law  questions  to  my 
own  sweet  will.  I  have  trusted  you  a  little,  and  I 
mean  to  do  so  somewhat  more.  But  you  haven't 
answered  my  question.  How  do  you  wish  me  to 
live,  as  your  wife,  in  this  parish  ?  " 

"Very  much  as  I  live  now  —  simply  like  a  par- 
son's wife.  It  is  against  the  very  soul  of  our  reli- 
gion for  a  priest  to  eat  great  dinners  while  the  poor 
starve,  or  that  he  or  his  should  wear  purple  and  fine 
linen  while  they  feel  the  frost  through  their  rags,  or 
that  he  should  live  in  a  palace  when  his  Master 
wandered  homeless  to  His  cross.  So,  my  dear,  we 
ought  to  live  very  plainly." 

Mr.  Ardenne  was  a  trifle  ascetic,  maybe,  but 
Helen's  heart  gave  a  wise  answer.  "  You  shall 
have  it  exactly  as  you  please,  but  yet  you  will 
let  me  wear  my  laces  —  and  —  I  thought  the 
bric-d-brac  in  the  trunks  up-stairs  might  make 
the  rectory  a  little  more  homelike." 

"  By  all  means  send  them  over,  and  arrange  to 
please  yourself.  Miss  Mary  seems  determined  to 
sweep  out  my  rectory  with  a  new  broom,  even  if 
it  should  sweep  away  the  rector  also." 

Helen  laughed  outright  at  the  suggested  potency 
of  Miss  Mary's  besom,  and  confessed  that  her 
hostess  was  the  most  energetic  person  she  had 
ever  met. 

"She  has  what  the  Americans  call  'faculty,' 
and  in  this  parish  it  has  been  very  useful." 


460  An  Invasion  of  the  Rectory. 

The  next  Sunday  there  was  quite  a  mob  in  the 
church  porch  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  Helen  as  she 
came  out.  Most  had  a  tender  sympathy  for  their 
pastor's  affianced  wife,  tinged,  of  course,  with 
curiosity.  Only  a  few  ancient  maidens  who 
mistook  their  mission  rectoryward  pronounced 
her  a  trifle  too  stout.  But  when  she  went  down 
with  Lucy  Farewell  to  the  Sunday  school  below, 
and  quietly  took  her  place  to  teach  a  class  of  big 
boys,  and  told  them  about  Florence  at  Easter-tide, 
as  she  had  seen  it,  the  good-will  towards  her  did 
not  decrease,  especially  among  the  boys. 


CHAPTER     XLI. 

THE   MARRIAGE. 

EASTER  had  come  and  gone,  and  Helen's  life 
had  long  since  ascended  from  "  the  Benedictus  " 
of  the  Hebrew  priest  to  the  more  gracious  "Te 
Deum "  of  the  whole  Church.  Certain  of  its 
sentences  were  ringing  through  all  her  waking 
hours :  — 

"  We  praise  Thee,  O  God ;  we  acknowledge 
Thee  to  be  the  Lord. 

All  the  earth  doth  worship  Thee,  the  Father 
Everlasting. 

To  Thee  all  angels  cry  aloud,  the  Heavens,  and 
all  the  Powers  therein. 

To  Thee  Cherubim  and  Seraphim  continually 
do  cry. 

Holy,  Holy,  Holy,  Lord  God  of  Sabaoth ! 

.Heaven  and  earth  are  full  of  the  majesty  of 
Thy  glory. 

The  glorious  company  of  the  Apostles  praise 
Thee; 

The  goodly  fellowship  of  the  Prophets  praise 
Thee; 

The  noble  army  of  the  Martyrs  praise  Thee  ; 


462  The  Marriage. 

The  Holy  Church  throughout  all  the  world 
doth  acknowledge  Thee. 

O  Lord,  save  Thy  people,  and  bless  Thine 
heritage. 

Govern  them  and  lift  them  up  forever. 

O  Lord,  have  mercy  upon  us,  have  mercy  upon 
us. 

O  Lord,  let  Thy  mercy  be  upon  us,  as  our  trust 
is  in  Thee. 

O  Lord,  in  Thee  have  I  trusted ;  let  me  never 
be  confounded." 

Nature  was  waking  to  a  new  life  in  the  Easter 
holidays.  The  brown  tassels  of  the  elms  and  the 
red  ones  of  the  maples  were  already  out,  and  the 
trailing  arbutus  was  hiding  its  pure,  bridal  flower- 
ets, blushing  with  the  sun's  kiss,  under  the  sere 
leaves,  the  day  that  Frederick  Ardenne  and  Helen 
De  Vere  were  wed. 

The  aged  bishop  had  come  down  from  his  city 
to  marry  them ;  and  there  was  to  be  an  Early  Com- 
munion, since  the  modern  mind  is  too  boisterous 
to  go  on  its  knees  in  the  secular  bustle  of  a  wed- 
ding service  and  commemorate  Him  whose  gentle 
law  has  given  a  new  sacredness  and  strength  to 
the  marriage  bond.  So  in  the  early  twilight  that 
Sacrament  of  the  Divine  Tenderness  proceeded  in 
all  its  ghostly  majesty  to  the  "  In  Excelsis  "  and 
the  Benediction  of  Peace.  There  were  just  two 
candles  lighted  on  the  altar,  for  the  simple  reason 


The  Marriage.  463 

that  just  then  lights  could  be  set  in  use  nowhere 
else  ;  and,  strange  to  say,  these  altar  tapers  pro- 
voked no  after-criticisms  among  folk  who  forbid 
that  even  candles  should  symbolize  a  sacred  Some- 
thing on  that  altar  where  they  hold  is  nothing ! 

The  wedding  itself  was  very  simple  and  brief, 
as  the  Prayer  Book  makes  it.  St.  Clement's 
church  was  filled  with  an  eager  and  not  over- 
quiet  multitude,  in  which  young  maidens,  with 
blushes  and  fans,  predominated.  There  was  the 
usual  rush  of  attention  towards  the  door  as  the 
rector  and  his  bride  came  in  alone,  and  knelt  at 
the  rail,  and  the  inevitable  flutter  of  young  hearts 
during  the  service  and  after.  A  brother  clergy- 
man gave  the  bride  away;  and  when  the  organ 
sounded  out  its  gleesome  salutation,  and  the  man 
and  wife  had  left  the  church,  there  was  the  usual 
crush  of  best  dresses  and  the  medley  of  a  depart- 
ing crowd. 

At  a  funeral  we  see  the  end ;  at  a  wedding  only 
the  beginning.  Yet  at  a  wedding  we  make  merry 
always.  But  which  solemnity  is  the  greater ! 

When  the  happy  couple  had  gone  away  on 
their  wedding  tour,  there  was  another  invasion 
of  the  rectory  by  Miss  Mary  and  her  coadjutor, 
Miss  Hannah  De  Vere.  This  time  the  boxes  in 
Miss  Mary's  garret  were  emptied  into  the  new 
home  in  such  profusion  as  to  quite  fill  the  house, 
which  was  rummaged  and  made  clean  from  top  to 


464  The  Marriage. 

bottom ;  and  everybody  was  happy  but  Sally,  the 
cook. 

"  Dat  ole  maid,"  she  said,  "  has  gon'  and  done 
used  so  much  water  dat  I's  a' most  ded  with  dis 
drefful  cold ;  and  Massa  will  have  to  eat  cold  cakes 
a-mornin's,  if  ole  Sally  kicks  de  bucket,  jes'  bekas 
dat  woman  scrubs  a  hole  tro  dis  kitchen  floor." 

It  was  thought  by  some  that  Miss  Mary  had 
prayed  for  a  rain  to  wash  the  very  roof.  At  any 
rate,  there  had  been  a  heavy  one ;  and  when  the 
groom  and  his  bride  came  home,  the  house,  inside 
and  out,  seemed  radiant  with  its  recent  bath.  The 
lighted  lamps  all  over  the  house  aided  the  delusion, 
if  such  it  was. 

Of  course  Helen  met  the  misfortunes  of  all 
recent  brides.  She  forgot  to  answer  to  her  new 
name  when  Mrs.  Ardenne  was  called  for,  and 
was  provoked  to  blushes  when  she  wrote  her  old 
name  in  a  formal  document,  with  her  husband  and 
the  town  clerk  looking  on.  But  upon  the  whole 
she  sped  bravely,  as  she  deserved. 

Nor  did  the  new  life,  on  which  she  now 
entered,  ever  run  dry  of  romance.  In  true  wed- 
lock sentiment  becomes  more  chaste  and  deli- 
cate. The  poetry  after  marriage,  among  the  poets 
at  least  who  marry,  is  more  gentle  and  sweet 
than  before,  whoever  may  say  the  contrary.  One 
morning  after  his  marriage,  Mr.  Ardenne  found  a 
package  on  his  desk  with  a  letter  on  top.  The 
letter  was  this ;  — 


The  Marriage.  465 

"  You  will  find,  dear  husband,  with  this  letter, 
documents  which  concern  the  estate  of  Sir  Chaun- 
cey  De  Vere.  I  have  never  told  you  that  he  left 
his  estate  to  me,  but  under  such  circumstances 
that  I  have  never  intended  to  use  it  as  mine. 
The  schedule  of  the  property  is  with  the  other 
papers,  and  you  will  see  that  it  is  a  rather  large 
one.  I  wish  to  consult  you,  if  you  are  willing, 
how  best  to  use  it  in  any  good  work  which  you 
may  advise.  Helen." 

So  Mr.  Ardenne  had  an  interview  with  his  wife 
in  the  library.  "  I  need  not  tell  you,  my  dear," 
the  latter  said,  "  all  the  circumstances  of  Sir 
Chauncey's  will,  nor  how  I  happened  to  inherit 
under  it,  for  that  would  only  pain  you  ;  but  after 
the  way  he  came  between  us  I  should  neither  be 
loyal  to  myself  nor  you  if  I  used  his  money 
personally.  To  me  it  would  be  always  blood 
money.  The  only  way  of  cleansing  it  I  can 
think  of  is  to  use  it  in  some  charity.  Will  you 
suggest  one  ?  " 

The  rector  meditated.  At  last  he  said,  "No, 
Helen,  neither  of  us  should  touch  his  money,  that 
is  plain.  What  you  suggest  is  wise.  Now,  if  you 
will  come  with  me  to  the  window,  I  will  tell  you 
more."  So  they  two  journeyed  to  the  window. 
"  You  see  that  broad  hill  opposite,  across  the 
river.  The  other  side  from  us  it  slopes  down  under 
orchards  into  a  sunny  valley  with  a  brook  running 


466  The  Marriage. 

through  it.  It  is  rather  a  large  estate,  and  is  now 
in  the  market.  For  years  I  have  coveted  that 
estate,  not  for  myself,  but  for  'others.  In  this  par- 
ish I  am  often  perplexed  to  know  what  to  do  with 
little  children  who,  by  orphanage  or  the  vices  of 
their  parents,  are  thrown  on  my  hands  or  the  cold 
charity  of  the  world.  The  children  of  the  poor 
have  often  fine  faces,  which,  as  they  age,  harden 
into  something  else,  as  if  their  lot  degraded  their 
very  faces.  It  is  bad  enough  for  grown  folk  to 
suffer  as  they  sometimes  do ;  but  I  always  think 
every  child  should  have  its  one  childhood  happy 
and  free  from  the  cark  and  evil  which  come  to  so 
many,  —  their  one  hour  of  flowers  and  fun  and 
carelessness.  It  has  been  a  dream  of  mine  for 
years  to  make  a  home  for  children,  such  as  I  am 
speaking  of,  and  I  have  amused  myself  fancying 
how  I  would  turn  that  hill  property  yonder  into 
such  an  asylum.  I  would  make  it  a  home  with 
plenty  of  flowers  and  outing  for  the  little  ones, 
where  they  might  frolic  under  the  apple  blossoms, 
or  fish  in  the  brook,  and  be  happy.  I  say  all  this 
frankly,  yet  I  can't  say  just  at  present  whether  it 
is  best  for  you  to  help  me  fulfil  my  dream.  What 
do  you  think  ?  " 

Helen,  with  her  arm  through  his  and  her  head 
beside  his  shoulder,  looked  at  the  broad  hill  before 
them  some  time  in  silence,  and  then  quietly  said, 
"  I  should  think  it  would  be  a  very  wise  thing  to 
do." 


The  Marriage.  467 

Sir  Chauncey's  money  was  to  be  cleansed,  then, 
somehow,  in  a  bath  of  charity. 

Nor  was  the  new  wife  without  the  old  wit  of 
wise  women  in  ruling  her  own  domain. 

"  You  do  not  pay  me  a  visit  in  my  library  very 
often  now-a-days,  Helen,"  the  rector  said,  as  the 
former  was  making  him  a  morning  visit. 

"No,  my  dear,  I  am  so  afraid  of  disturbing 
your  papers  scattered  round  your  room,  with  the 
long  dresses  we  ladies  wear.  I  quite  enjoy  seeing 
the  very  free  way  you  have  of  ruling  your  own 
library  without  my  interference,  —  quite  a  curios- 
ity shop,  my  dear,  and  I  like  to  come  here ;  only  I 
wouldn't  disturb  your  treasures  for  the  world." 

The  rector  looked  up  with  a  smile  at  the  bland 
lady. 

"Do  you  really  think  you  can  improve  this 
room  ?  " 

"Not  much,  my  dear;  but  if  you  would  only 
allow  me  to  clear  a  lane,  say  from  my  chair,  which 
you  set  for  me,  round  to  your  side,  and  then  just 
a  short  path  to  the  window  where  I  can  look  at 
the  hill  you  bought  yesterday  for  the  children's 
home,  I  think  I  could  get  on  famously." 

"  Well,  you  can  do  exactly  as  you  please  with 
your  road-making,  in  my  room,  you  know." 

So  the  deft  lady  made  her  path  round  the 
library,  as  she  said,  and  somehow  its  chronic 
litter  had  vanished  when  she  had  finished. 


468  The  Marriage. 

There  was  one  thing  more.  "  You  are  so  very 
kind,  my  dear,  this  morning,  I  had  almost  forgot 
to  tell  you  what  I  came  in  to  say,  that  you  are 
quite  welcome  to  have  in  your  lordship's  library 
that  statuette  of  Victory  you  admired  so  much 
when  I  unpacked  it  yesterday.  Where  shall  I  put 
it?" 

"Put  it  on  the  mantel,  I  should  say.  Yes,  I 
would  like  the  statue  to  look  at  very  much." 

"  But,  my  dear.,  that  mantel  is  in  such  a  state ! 
It  would  be  quite  hidden  among  the  piles  of 
pamphlets  on  it  at  present." 

"Helen,  did  it  ever  occur  to  you  that  you  like, 
as  so  many  women  do,  to  have  your  own  way 
sometimes  ?  " 

"  I  can't  say  it  ever  did.  But  since  you  remind 
me  of  it,  I  think  —  perhaps  —  I  do." 

So  Helen  had  her  way  with  the  rector's  mantel, 
and  perhaps,  in  the  course  of  a  long  and  hence- 
forth happy  life,  also  in  several  other  matters. 
Only  it  was  not  Miss  Mary  Kendrick's  way. 


CHAPTER    XLII. 

EDWAKD   VAUGHN FINALE. 

AND  what  part  had  Edward  Vaughn  in  all  this 
festival  life  in  Aubrey  Parish?  Only  that  of  a 
sad  contrast.  He  was  facing  his  death  in  life  with 
the  same  grimness  and  in  silence.  His  comfort- 
able establishment  ministered  what  it  could,  and 
his  old  friends  came  up  from  the  city  to  mitigate 
his  loneliness.  Indeed,  there  was  always  some 
one  of  them  in  the  house  to  read  and  talk  to 
him  if  he  liked,  but  after  all  it  was  worse  than 
lonesome,  this  life  of  his.  He  took  it  to  be  eras- 
ure of  himself,  annihilation  without  that  boon  of 
unconsciousness  which,  as  some  think,  is  the  one 
gift  which  dust  and  ashes  have  to  bestow. 

He  had  kept  run  of  the  wedding  and  the  story 
which  went  with  it,  and  had  early  sent  his  con- 
gratulations to  his  friend,  the  rector.  The  latter 
had  indeed  become,  of  late,  a  regular  visitor  at 
River  Nook ;  and  after  the  wedding  had  settled 
itself  down  to  the  everyday  life  of  clerical  duties, 
Helen  went  with  him. 

"  How  sad  it  is,"  her  kind  heart  said,  as  they 
went  home,  "  that  so  strong  a  man  should  suffer 
so  !  and  he  is  evidently  a  gentleman." 


470  Edward   Vauylm  —  Finale. 

"  Yes,  Helen ;  the  outlook  for  him  is  anything 
but  hopeful."  And  yet  how  often  in  this  world 
are  things  ordered  better  than  we  foresee  ! 

Then  after,  and  as  the  summer  waxed,  she  and 
Lucy  Farewell  often  went  over  together,  bringing 
him  flowers,  and  sometimes  reading  to  him.  On 
such  occasions  he  always  insisted  that  his  Sister^ 
of  Mercy,  as  he  called  Lucy,  should  take  her 
place,  and  administer,  if  it  were  necessary,  his 
pillows,  or  bring  him  his  glass  of  water. 

On  one  of  these  visits  a  crisis  came  to  him. 
He  was  lying,  like  the  stone  statue  he  seemed  to 
be,  motionless  and  silent,  as  Lucy  came  in  and 
was  proceeding  to  bring  him  a  nosegay  to  inspect, 
which  she  had  gathered  in  Miss  Kendrick's  garden. 
In  doing  so  she  stumbled  over  a  cushion,  and  the 
flowers  fell  on  the  floor,  close  beside  him.  The 
danger  of  her  falling — an  instinct  to  save,  per- 
haps —  some  emotion  out  of  his  old  nature, 
must  have  powerfully  prompted  him  to  make 
some  effort  through  his  crippled  organism  to 
rescue.  At  any  rate,  as  Lucy  raised  herself  and 
looked,  his  right  hand  and  forearm  had  actually 
moved  themselves,  nay,  were  that  instant  moving, 
slowly  indeed,  but  surely,  towards  her.  She 
looked  into  his  face,  surprised.  The  face  was  even 
paler  than  usual,  and  the  lines  of  the  mouth  were 
set  as  in  strong  resolution. 

"  Why,  Edward  Vaughn,  what  has  happened  ?  " 


Edward   Vaughn — Finale.  471 

she  said  in  almost  a  cry  of  fright.  Mrs.  Ardenne 
came  over  from  where  she  was  sitting,  and  looked 
on. 

"Some  sort  of  a  change  is  coming  over  me  — 
what  I  can't  say  —  but  it  seems  to  be  towards  life 
again.  Please  be  quite  still,  and  let  me  work  out 
the  problem,  whatever  it  be.  No,  don't  pick  up 
those  flowers  "  (to  Lucy,  who  was  reaching  after 
them),  "let  them  lie  there;  perhaps  I  can  reach 
them."  So  the  grim  man,  resolute,  and  with 
teeth  hard  set,  kept  on  at  his  arm.  Slowly,  al- 
most beyond  vision,  the  arm  was  moving  out  — 
down  ;  and  the  two  women,  with  bated  breath,  in 
silence  watched  the  struggle.  The  great  drops 
on  his  brow  showed  his  own  excitement  at  his 
now  possible  deliverance  from  his  death  of  stone. 
"This  arm  of  mine  seems  stung  all  over,  as  if 
with  nettles,  and  a  strange  warmth  is  spreading 
over  me.  I  am  doctor  enough  to  know  these 
are  favorable  signs  —  the  body  trying  to  go  free. 
Have  patience  with  me,  ladies,  and  let  me  try  hard 
to  live." 

So  they  watched  while  he  did  try.  The  hand 
had  reached  the  floor,  and  was  now  creeping 
towards  the  flowers.  It  reached  them;  then  the 
slow  fingers  crept  around  them,  and  the  hand  held 
them.  Then,  in  like  fashion,  the  hand  came  back 
to  the  lounge  with  the  nosegay  in  it.  Then  a 
grave  smile  played  round  the  mouth,  which  said, 


472  Edward   Vaughn  —  Finale. 

"Here  are  your  flowers,  my  Sister  of  Mercy. 
Don't  let  them  fall  again,  please." 

There  was  surprise  indeed  over  the  whole  house 
as  news  went  out  that  its  master  had  moved  once 
more.  "Pardon  me,  ladies,"  he  said,  "if  I  disturb 
your  visit,  —  it  isn't  every  day  that  a  man  crawls 
out  of  his  grave,  as  I  have  this  afternoon." 

"  Oh,  we  are  so  glad  for  you  ! "  said  both. 

"Please  call  John  Walker.  Go  for  the  doctor, 
John." 

The  doctor  came  after  the  ladies  were  gone. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "it  looks  like  recovery.  Onfy 
there  must  be  great  care  not  to  overdo.  I  hope 
the  muscular  system  will  have  vitality  enough  to 
recover  its  tone  entirely.  We  shall  see." 

The  muscles  had  vitality,  and  began  to  live 
again.  From  that  hour  forth  he  began  to  mend 
slowly  and  surely.  In  a  week's  time  he  was 
carried  out  of  doors  in  men's  arms,  and  sat  on 
his  own  verandah,  weak  as  a  child,  but  an  un- 
doubted convalescent.  So  for  weeks  and  months 
he  was  climbing  back  to  life  again,  and  his  will 
came  with  his  health.  The  doctor  prescribed 
outdoors,  and  there  he  was.  Some  sort  of  sedan 
chair  was  found  for  him,  and  his  men  bore'  him 
about  his  place,  and  even  into  the  town.  Occa- 
sionally he  was  carried  on  board  his  yacht,  which 
John  Walker  sailed  down  the  river.  Yet  he  set 
no  foot  on  the  ground  until  the  late  winter. 


Edward   Vaughn  —  Finale.  473 

So  Edward  Vaughn  regathered  himself  into 
health  again.  Years  have  come  and  gone  since 
the  day  he  picked  up  Lucy  Farewell's  nosegay  off 
his  library  floor.  The  only  two  events  in  those 
years  which  concern  our  story  can  be  briefly  told. 
The  first  was  when  there  was  a  fair  held  in  St. 
Clement's  to  help  furnish  the  De  Vere  home  for 
little  children.  It  had  rained  all  the  fair-time ; 
the  receipts  were  small,  and  the  managers  mourned. 
But  the  last  day  of  the  fair  the  postman  brought 
Mrs.  Ardenne  a  letter  in  the  dreary  rain.  The 
only  writing  inside  was,  "For  the  Children's 
Home ; "  but  there  was  an  enclosure  of  several 
large  bank-bills.  That  lady  actually  turned  a 
little  pale  with  excitement.  Then  she  told  Lucy 
Farewell,  who  was  tending  at  one  of  the  tables, 
and  they  two  carried  the  good  news  to  the  rector 
in  his  library. 

"  My  dear,  some  unknown  person  has  sent  us 
money  enough  to  furnish  '  the  home.' " 

Mr.  Ardenne  counted  the  money  carefully. 
"  This  is  Mr.  Vaughn's  work,  my  dear,  I  am 
quite  sure,  because  nobody  else  in  this  parish  has 
so  much  money  to  give.  One  way  and  another 
he  has  given  a  deal  of  money  to  the  town's  poor. 
I  think  you  ladies  had  better  thank  him,  and  run 
your  risk.  He  is  a  little  odd,  and  may  surprise 
you  by  the  way  he  receives  your  gratitude,  but 
you  had  better  do  it." 


474  Edward   Vaughn  —  Finale. 

Lucy  Farewell  said  nothing;  only  she  remem- 
bered a  certain  Christmas  present  long  ago,  and 
the  disgusted  way  Mr.  Vaughn  had  crammed  a 
white  envelope  into  his  pocket  on  that  Christmas 
Eve. 

The  two  ladies  searched  out  Edward  Vaughn, 
and  Mrs.  Ardenne  proceeded  to  thank  him.  But 
he  put  on  a  very  icy  manner,  while  his  face  settled 
into  a  most  artistic  blankness  as  he  said,  "  I  have 
lived  too  long  in  this  parish  to  confess  anything, 
except  my  faults  ;  and  if  I  should  own  to  this  gift 
somebody  would  be  likely  to  hand  it  back,  and  I 
should  have  to  repocket  the  money,  mine  or  not. 
Miss  Farewell,  there,  can  tell  you  how  all  that  is, 
if  you  only  ask  her.  I  decline  to  accept  any 
thanks  or  admit  anything." 

Mrs.  Ardenne  looked  from  the  one  to  the  other 
perplexed.  Lucy  answered,  to  that  appeal, 

"  Oh !  that  is  only  a  little  sarcasm  at  my  ex- 
pense. I  am  sure  he  sent  the  money,  and  that 
we  owe  him  thanks."  So  the  ladies  left  their 
thanks,  —  in  the  air,  perhaps,  —  and  went  their 
ways. 

The  second  event  was  very  much  later  on,  and 
a  trifle  personal.  Mrs.  Ardenne,  in  her  parlor, 
late  one  afternoon,  was  surprised  by  Lucy  Fare- 
well's hurried  entrance.  She  looked  up  from  her 
embroidery  to  see  that  her  usually  placid  face  was 
full  of  distress. 


Edward    Vaughn  —  Finale.  475 

"  Why,  Lucy,  what  is  the  matter  ?  " 

But  the  latter,  saying  nothing,  came  and  laid  her 
head  in  that  matron's  lap,  trembling  violently,  and 
sobbing.  Even  so  placid  a  woman  as  she  was 
doing  that !  The  elder  lady  waited  and  soothed 
till  the  distress  calmed.  Then  she  repeated  her 
question. 

"  Mr.  Vaughn  has  just  asked  me  to  be  his  wife." 

"  Oh  !  is  that  all  ?  That  is  not  such  a  terrible 
thing,  after  all,  is  it?  Come,  now,  tell  me  just 
how  it  happened." 

So  after  a  while,  and  some  more  gentle  coaxing, 
Lucy  told  her  about  as  much  as  women  usually 
relate  of  their  supreme  moments  in  joy  or  sorrow. 

"  He  came  into  my  schoolroom  after  hours,  and 
very  bluntly,  as  his  way  is,  you  know,  asked  me 
to  be  his  wife." 

"And  what  did  you  do,  my  dear? 

"  I  told  him  that  I  could  not  be." 

"  With  equal  bluntness,  yet  with  a  woman's 
tone,  you  told  him  that,  you  silly  girl,  did  you  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  And  don't  you  love  him  ?  Girls  don't  usually 
distress  themselves  over  the  man  they  hate." 

"  No,  Mrs.  Ardenne,  I  am  sure  I  don't,  —  at 
least,  not  as  I  ought  to  love  the  man  I  marry. 
He  always  frightens  me ;  I  am  afraid  of  him.  He  is 
so  moody  —  he  gives  me  so  many  sides  of  himself 
—  he  is  such  a  riddle  !  He  is  worse  than  '  Blue 


476  Edward   Vaughn  —  Finale. 

Beard  ; '  "  and  she  laughed  hysterically  at  her  own 
emphatic  witticism. 

"  Besides,"  she  went  on,  "  I  am  only  a  poor 
teacher  in  a  parish  school.  Why  should  he  marry 
me,  or  why  should  I  become  a  wife  in  a  house 
like  his?  I  should  marry  quite  out  of  my 
station." 

"  Sheer  pride,  my  dear,  under  a  veil  of  humility. 
If  you  are  a  genuine  woman,  as  I  know  you  are, 
what  station,  pray,  is  above  that  ?  No,  you  poor 
child ;  I  am  sure  you  will  marry  Edward  Vaughn 
and  '  be  happy,'  as  the  story  books  read, '  forever 
after.'  What  you  want  now  is  a  good  night's 
sleep,  and  your  own  common  sense  to  guide  you, 
and  you  will  see  things  as  they  are.  Your  heart 
is  all  right  now,  only  a  little  clouded  by  your  ex- 
cited brain.  I  expect  to  be  invited  to  the  wed- 
ding." At  which  both  laughed. 

And  Edward  Vaughn  did  marry  Lucy  Fare- 
well—  late,  to  be  sure,  and  after  many  and  curious 
vicissitudes.  And  what  is  more,  they  are  living 
this  day  at  River  Nook,  and  happy  after  that  sin- 
gular fashion  which  his  nature  allows.  He  always 
says  that  his  wife  married  him  to  get  rid  of  him, 
or  as  a  sort  of  indoor  pensioner  of  hers,  or  as  one 
of  the  parish  poor  whom  a  Sister  of  Charity  is 
bound  to  own.  She,  on  her  part,  says  that  it  is 
still  a  mystery  to  her  how  she  ever  came  to  marry 
him,  but,  as  she  took  him  for  better  or  worse,  she 


Edward   Vaughn —  Finale.  477 

has  certainly  found  him  better.  Edward  Vaughn 
is  still  no  saint,  nor  ever  will  be.  Yet  he  goes 
to  church  with  gravity,  and  has  still  silver  for 
the  poor.  His  better  nature  is  always  breaking 
through  the  rifts  of  that  crust  of  a  past  life,  which, 
without  the  teeth  of  the  iron  trap  which  once 
held  fast  his  body,  still  restrains  the  mobility  of 
his  undoubted  virtues.  The  hand  with  which  he 
plucked  fruit,  good  and  evil,  from  the  tree  of  life, 
is  scarred;  yet  is  it  an  open  hand,  which  never 
strikes  false,  or  holds  back  from  his  friends.  Lucy 
is  never  quite  sure  but  there  is  a  caged  tiger 
somewhere  about  him,  though  she  has  never  seen 
it,  or  felt  its  claws.  She  herself  has  been  casting 
her  bread  upon  the  waters,  and,  as  the  years  lapse, 
it  is  coming  back  to  her  in  a  full  feast. 

Yet  he  is  let  have  his  own  way  in  his  own  house. 
For  instance,  the  first  Monday  morning  in  every 
month,  Mrs.  Vaughn  will  come  down  in  the  very 
neatest  of  matron's  caps  to  breakfast.  Then  she 
will  expect  to  find  something  under  her  plate,  and 
proceeds  to  look  for  it.  It  is  a  white  envelope 
addressed  to  "Lucy  Farewell."  In  it  are  new 
bank-bills  —  occasionally,  when  she  has  a  fresh 
charity  on  hand,  some  large  ones. 

Then  the  broad-shouldered,  silent  man  at  the 
other  end  of  the  table  also  expects.  She  will 
put  the  envelope  and  its  enclosure  deeper  down 
into  the  pocket  of  her  morning-dress  than  ever 


478  Edivard   Vaughn  —  Finale. 

her  hands  went  down  one  Christmas  Eve  into  her 
muff,  as  she  held  her  maidenly  altercation  in  the 
Christmas  snows.  Then  the  white  cap  will  go 
over  to  the  man,  and  the  lips  under  will  give 
the  broad,  expectant  forehead  just  three  wifely 
kisses.  At  such  times  he  will  say  nothing  except 
what  a  grim  smile  over  the  whole  face  says  to 
Lucy,  who  can  interpret.  Only  once  she  gave  its 
meaning:  "You  are  thinking,  my  dear,  that  I  am 
very  ready  to  take  your  money  now.  Well,  I  am 
—  and  you  too." 

"  Perhaps." 

He  has  his  own  way  of  surprises.  Shortly  after 
their  marriage  in  St.  Clement's  he  said,  "  Please 
bring  me,  if  you  will,  the  '  Reineke  Fuchs '  of 
Goethe  with  Kaulbach's  illustrations,  on  the  shelf 
yonder  —  that  book  bound  in  red  Russia  morocco. 
I  wish  to  show  you  something." 

So  the  book  is  brought,  and  opened  to  a  page 
where  there  appears  a  medley  of  pressed,  withered 
flowers. 

"  Do  you  know  those  flowers,  Lucy  ?  " 

"  No  ;  how  should  I  ?  " 

"  Well,  they  are  violets  which  a  Sister  of  Mercy 
brought  me  once  when  I  lay  in  my  stone  death 
on  that  lounge  yonder.  Do  you  remember  them 
now?" 

There  was  only  a  very  gentle  kiss  for  answer. 

Surprises,  too,  come  to  him.     Only  last  week  a 


Edward  Vaughn — Finale.  479 

very  little  girl  on  his  knee  at  the  dessert,  rum- 
maging round  at  her  father's  watch-chain,  made  a 
discovery. 

"  O  papa !  you  have  got  no  little  finger  on 
your  hand,  as  I  have ;  you  have  only  four.  Where 
is  it,  papa  ?  " 

Papa's  face  grows  grim  again,  and  a  shadow  is 
covering. 

"  I  lost  that  finger,  my  child,  in  the  river  once, 
breaking  ice  for  your  mamma.  She  will  tell  you." 

So  the  little  girl  slides  down  from  the  lap,  and 
goes  over  to  mamma. 

"  Yes,  my  child,  when  you  are  old  enough,  I  will 
tell  you  how  your  big  papa  yonder  once  saved 
your  mother's  life  in  the  river,  when  the  winter 
was  very  cold." 

And  the  rest  of  Aubrey  folk  who  have  appeared 
in  this  story  ?  Those  of  them  who  are  not  dead 
are  going  on  as  ever  with  the  clangor  of  the  mill- 
wheels  every  day,  and  the  stars  looking  down 
every  night  upon  a  life  which  is  so  everyday,  and 
yet,  after  all,  so  strange. 

It  is  the  fashion  of  to-day,  on  its  agnostic  and 
material  side,  to  sneer  at  sentiment  as  an  offence 
in  art.  Yet  what  is  art  but  its  expression? 
What  bloom  is  to  flowers,  the  purple  juice  to  the 
grapes,  the  blush  of  sunset  to  the  skies,  the  red 
blood  in  our  heart-valves  to  the  body,  that  is  senti- 


480  Edivard   Vauyhn  —  Finale. 

ment  to  human  life,  which  without  it  is  a  mere 
skeleton  of  shrivelled  nerves  and  sinews. 

Again,  in  a  cognate  criticism,  men  are  denying 
that  supreme  tragedies  are  everywhere  evolving 
themselves  out  of  the  dry  statistics  of  our  modern 
civilization.  But  the  fact  is,  that  tragedy  was 
never  more  multiform  and  sober  than  now  and 
here.  While  the  heart  fires  of  our  age  receive  a 
new  energy  from  its  strangely  developed  intellect ; 
while  a  new  generation  out  of  the  old  manger  goes 
forth  with  its  human  passions  to  taste  of  its  tree 
of  life ;  while  black  robes  follow  bridal  veils,  and 
wreaths  wither  in  the  coffin  of  buried  joys ;  while 
men  go  down  to  the  sea  in  ships,  and  women  on 
the  shore  watch  in  vain  for  their  returning  sails ; 
while  men  waste  in  the  red  battle,  and  women 
kneel  at  the  hearthstone  with  prayers  for  the 
slain,  —  so  long  will  the  tragedy  in  common  life, 
statelier  than  King  Lear,  confront  the  wise,  and 
Hamlet  be  only  a  hint  of  what  lies  cold  and  stark 
with  Ophelia  under  the  willows  —  or  of  those 
darker  passions  which  coldly  furnish  forth  the 
marriage  table  with  funeral  meats,  and  sleep  at 
last  under  the  circlet  of  Yorick's  skull  in  the 
mould. 

So  the  life  in  Aubrey  Parish,  herein  described, 
vindicates  its  right  to  this  present  history.  That 
life  repeats  itself  to-morrow  somewhere  else,  in  a 
new  guise,  but  with  the  same  old  soul  of  a  race 


Edward   Vaughn  —  Finale.  481 

supreme.  It  is  always  a  life  opening  out  into  a 
mystery  unsearchable,  and  to  the  wise,  at  least, 
demands  another  life  to  interpret  and  fulfil  the 
present.  Aubrey  folk,  like  their  neighbors,  "  have 
that  within  which  passeth  show  "  or  writing  down. 
They  inherit,  like  the  rest  of  us,  what  to  those 
who  walk  by  sight  is  the  riddle  of  life.  That  is 
still  the  Sphinx  in  Aubrey  Parish,  and  Aubrey 
Parish  is  everywhere. 


THE   END. 


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them  in  terms  of  high  praise,  dwelling  not  only  on  their  delicious  humor,  their 
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but  what  has  been  described  as  their  deep,  true  humanness,  and  the  inimitable 
manner  in  which  the  mirror  is  held  up  to  nature  that  all  may  see  reflected 
therein  some  familiar  trait,  some  description  or  character  which  is  at  once  recog- 
nized. 

MISS  M:LEAtTS  NEW  BOOK. 

Since  the  production  of  Miss  McLean's  first  effort  "  Cape  Cod  Folks,"  she 
has  steadily  advanced  in  intellectual  development ;  the  same  genius  is  at  work 
in  a  larger  and  more  artistic  manner,  until  she  has  at  length  produced  what 
must  be  truly  considered  as  her  masterpiece,  and  which  we  have  the  pleasure  to 
announce  for  immediate  publication. 

LASTCHANCE   JUNCTION;   FAR,    FAR   WEST.    A  novel    By 
SAILY  PRATT  MCLEAN,     i  vol.     12010     Cloth.     $1.25. 

The  author  in  this  book  sees  further  and  clearer  than  she  saw  in  her  earlier 
works  ;  she  has  stepped,  as  it  were,  out  of  the  limits  of  her  former  thought  and 
action  into  the  centre  of  the  arena  of  the  world's  full,  rich  life  ;  from  the  indi- 
vidual characteristic  she  has  passed  to  the  larger  weaknesses  and  virtues  of 
humanity,  with  their  inevitable  results  of  tragedy  and  nobility.  Much  as 
has  been  said  respecting  the  pathos  of  her  former  books,  one  feels,  as  the 
last  page  of  "  Lastchance  Junction  "  has  been  turned,  that  they  were  but  sma;l 
as  compared  with  this,  so  terribly  earnest  is  it,  so  true  in  its  delineation  of  life, 
with  all  its  elements  of  tragedy  and  comedy  ;  and  life,  moreover,  in  that  region 
of  our  country  where  Nature  still  reigns  supreme,  and  where  humanity,  uncon- 
trolled by  the  conventionalities  of  more  civilized  communities,  stands  sharply 
drawn  in  the  strong  shadows  of  villainy  and  misery,  and  in  the  high  lights  of 
uncultured,  strong  nobility  and  gentleness.  There  are  no  half-tones. 

Terse,  incisive  descriptions  of  men  and  scenery,  drawn  with  so  vivid  a  pen 
that  one  can  see  the  characters  and  their  setting,  delicious  bits  of  humor, 
passages  full  of  infinite  paihos,  make  this  book  absolutely  hold  the  reader  from 
the  tide  to  the  last  word,  and  as,  when  finished,  one  sighs  for  the  pity  of  it,  the 
feeling  rises  that  such  a  work  has  not  been  written  in  vain,  and  will  have  its 
place  among  those  w  liich  tend  to  elevate  our  race. 

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A  cheaf  edition  of  a  neiu  translation  of  the  Gospels,  having  a  great  run  of 
popularity  in  the  religious  circles  of  Great  Britain. 

The  author  has  taken  the  authorised  version  as  it  stands,  availing  him- 
self of  many  corrections  suggested  by  the  revised  version,  and  has  given  the 
apparent  meaning  of  the  text  in  the  plainest  possible  language,  the  whole 
object  being  the  simplification  of  the  narratives  of  the  Evangelists.  It  is  not 
expected  that  this  rendering  will  supersede  the  accepted  version.  The  author 
evidently  feels  that  he  is  not  without  hope  that  it  may  lead  to  the  serious  con- 
sideration, in  proper  quarters,  of  the  advisability  of  providing  the  people 
with  an  authorised  translation  of  the  Scriptures  into  the  "vulgar  tongue." 
not  of  the  sixteenth  but  of  the  nineteenth  century. 

THE  SKETCHES  OF  THE  CLANS  OF  SCOTLAND,  with  twenty- 
two  full-page  colored  plates  of  Tartans.  By  CLANSMEM  J.  M.  P.  -  F.  W.  S. 
Large  Svo.  -Cloth,  $2.00. 

The  object  of  this  treatise  is  to  give  a  concise  account  of  the  origin,  seat,  and 
characteristics  of  the  Scottish  clans,  together  with  a  representation  of  the  dis- 
tinguishing tartan  worn  by  each.  The  illustrations  are  fine  specimens  of  color 
work,  all  executed  in  Scotland. 

THE  GREEN   HAND;  or,  the  Adventures  of  a  Naval  Lieutenant.     A  Sea 
Story.     By  GEORGE  CUPPLES.     With   Portrait   of   the  Author  and  other 
Illustrations,     i  vol.     iamo.     Cloth.     #2.00. 
A  new  library  edition  of  this  fascinating  sea  classic.  [In  press. 

ALL  MATTER  TENDS  TO  ROTATION,  OR  THE  ORIGIN 
OF  ENERGY.  A  New  Hypothesis  which  throws  Light  upon  all  the 
Phenomena  of  Nature.  Electricity,  Magnetism,  Gravitation,  Light, 
Heat,  and  Chemical  Action  explained  upon  Mechanical  Principles  and 
traced  to  a  Single  Source.  By  LEONIDAS  LE  CENCI  HAMILTON,  M.  A. 
Vol.  i.  Origin  ol  Kneryv  Electrostatics  and  Magnetism.  Containing  100 
Illustrations,  including  Fine  Steel  Portraits  of  Faraday  and  Maxwell. 
Handsome^  bound  ir  cloth.  Svo,  340  pp.  Price,  $3.00.  Net. 

In  this  volume  the  author  has  utilized  the  modern  conception  of  lines  of 
torce  originated  by  Faraday,  and  afterwards  developed  mathematically  by 
Prof.  J.  Clerk  Maxwell,  and  he  has  reached  an  explanation  of  electrical  and 
magnetic  phenomena  which  has  been  expected  by  physicists  on  both  conti- 
nents. It  may  have  a  greater  influence  upon  the  scientific  world  than  either 
Newton's  "  Principia  or  Darwin's  "Origin  of  Species,"  because  it  places 
natural  science  upon  its  only  true  basis —  Pure  Mechanics. 

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all  students  of  American  history,  who  appreciate  a  calm,  impartial  criticism  of 
a  man  and  an  episode  which  have  been  universally  and  powerfully  discussed. 

MARGARET;  and  THE  SINGER'S  STORY.    By  EFFIE  DOUGLASS 
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AROUND    THE     GOLDEN     DEEP.     A   Romance    of  the    Sierras. 

By  A.  P.  REEDER.    500  pages.    i2mo.     Cloth.    $1.50. 

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MIDNIGHT  SUNBEAMS,  OR  BITS  OF  TRAVEL  THROUGH 

THE  LAND  OF  THE  NORSEMAN.  By  EDWIN  COOLIDGK  KIM- 

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vignette.     Cloth.    $1.25. 

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ind  of  great  interest  to  all  who  intend  to   travel  in  or  have  come  from  Norway 

>r  Sweden. 

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\ngelo,  and   others.     Also  prose  translations  from  the  German,  edited  and 
prefaced  by  Max  Miiller. 

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LING, LL.  D.  i2mo,  boards,  50  cents. 

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think  of  somebody  besides  himself.  Tlie  letter  is  one  which  every  young  man 
who  lias  a  leaning  towards  literary  wyrk  will  read  and  ponder  over. 

SOCIAL    LIFE    AND    LITERATURE    FIFTY    YEARS   AGO. 

i6mo,  cloth,  white  paper  labels,  gilt  top.     $1.00. 

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CIVILIZATION  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES.  By  MATTHEW 
ARNOLD.  And  Other  Essays  concerning  America.  i6mo,  unique  paper 
boards.  75  cents.  Cloth,  uncut,  $1.25.  The  cloth  binding  matches  the 
uniform  edition  of  his  collected  works. 

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" General  Grant,  an  Estimate."  "A  Word  about  America,"  "A  Word  more 
about  America,"  and  "  Civilization  in  the  United  States." 

*$*  This  collection  gathers  in  the  great  critic's  last  contributions7  to  literature. 

LEGENDS    OF    THE    RHINE.      From  the  German  of  P*»*.  BERNARD. 

Translated  by  FR.  ARNOLD.     Finely  Illustrated.     Small  4to.     Cloth. 
An  admirable  collection  of  the  popular  historical  traditions  of  tne  Rhine,  told 
with  taste  and  picturesque  simplicity.  [In press. 

A      SELECTION      FROM     THE     POEMS     OF     PUSHKIN 
Translated,  with  Critical  Notes  and  a  Bibliography.     By  IVAN  PANIN. 
author  of  "Thoughts."     Foolscap  8vo.     Unique  binding.     $2.00. 

The  first  published  translation  by  the  brilliant  young  Russian,  Ivan  Panin, 
whose  lectures  in  Boston  on  the  literature  of  Russia,  du/ing  the  autumn  of  last 
_  ear,  attracted  crowded  houses. 

WIT,  WISDOM,  AND  PATHOS,  from  the  prose  of  HEINRICH  HEINE, 

with  a  few  pieces  from  the  "  Book  of  Songs  "     Selected  and  translated  by 

J.   SNODGRASS.      Second  edition,    thoroughly  revised.     Cr.    8vo,  338  pp. 

Cloth,  $2.00 

"A   treasure   of  almost   priceless   thought   and  criticism."  —  Contemporary 

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$1.25.  Second  Edition  revised. 

This  book,  which  is  not  sectarian,  has  been  received  with  marked  favor  by 
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prising, for  it  treats  the  most  difficult  problems  of  life,  here  and  hereafter,  in  a 
hold  and  fearless  manner,  and  at  the  same  time  in  a  candid  and  tender  spirit, 
and  has  supplanted  unbelief,  doubt,  and  perplexity,  with  faith,  trust,  and  hope. 

"  It  is  a.  re  al  spiritual  biography  — an  inner  I  if e  honestly  revealed.  .  .  Such 
a  cheerful  spirit  animates  the  book,  a  spirit  so  full  of  spiritual  buoyancy,  in  har- 
mony with  the  gospel  of  love,  seeking  the  good  and  the  beautiful — this  in  itself 
communicates  hope,  courage,  and/aith."  —  Boston  Post. 

WHENCE?  WHAT?  WHERE?  A  VIEW  OF  THE  ORIGIN, 
NATURE,  AND  DESTINY  OF  MAN.  By  JAMES  R.  NICHOLS. 
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edition,  revised. 

"I  consider  the  late  James  R.  Nichols,  the  -well-known  chemist,  one  of  the 
i-jolest  and  most  scientific  investigators  in  the  field  of  psychical  phenomena,  and, 
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thing of  value.  — Joseph  Cook. 

•'  No  one  can  take  up  the  book  without  feeling  the  inclination  to  read  further, 
and  to  ponder  on  the  all-important  subjects  which  it  presents.  Though  it  is  not 
a  religious  book  in  the  accepted  sense  of  the  word,  it  is  a  took  which  calls  for  the 
exercise  of  the  religious  nature,  and  which  in  diffusing  many  sensible  ide^s 
will  be  good."  —  Philadelphia  Press. 

THE  MYSTERY  OF  PAIN  :  A  BOOK  ADDRESSED  TO  THE 
SORROWFU  L.  By  JAMES  HINTON,  M.  D.  With  an  introduction  by 
JAMES  R.  NICHOLS,  author  of  "Whence?  What?  Where?"  i6mo. 
Cloth,  gilt  top.  $1.00. 

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was  sent  to  this  country,  which  readily  found  purchasers.  The  book,  at  the 
time  it  appeared  in  England,  had  a  limited  sale ;  but  since  the  author's  death  a 
new  interest  has  arisen,  and  the  wofk  has  been  widely  circulated  and  read. —  A 
book  which  has  comforted  many  a  troubled  soul,  and  awakened  the  emotion  of 
love  in  distressed  and  doubting  hearts.  — Many  good  and  uplifting  thoughts  in 
the  book, —  thoughts  which  will  not  readily  pass  from  the  memory.  The  prob- 
lem of  pain  is  indeed  dark  and  not  easily  solved;  and  if  one  is  able  to  .point 
out  rifts  in  the  cloud,  the  world  of  sufferers  will  welcome  the  light  as  rays 
breaking  through  from  the  regions  of  rest  and  bliss.  —  From  the  Introduction. 

"  No  word  of  praise  can  add  anything  to  the  value  of  this  little  work,  which 
has  now  taken  its  place  as  one  of  the  classics  of  religious  literature.  The  ten- 
der, reverent,  and  searching  spirit  of  the  author  has  come  as  a  great  consolation 
and  help  to  many  persons.  —  New  York  Critic. 

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LIVES   OF   FIVE   DISTINGUISHED    AMERICANS.     THE    ONLY 
BIOGRAPHIES    EXTANT. 

WIATTHEW  CALBRAITH  PERRY.  A  typical  American  Naval  Officer. 
By  WILLIAM  ELLIOT  GRIFFIS,  author  of  "  The  Mikado's  Empire,"  and 
"  Corea:  the  Hermit  Nation."  Cr.  8vo,  459  pages,  gilt  top,  with  two  por- 
traits and  seven  illustrations.  $2.00. 

"  Sure  of  favorable  reception,  and  a  permanent  place  in  public  and  private 
libraries." — N.  Y.  Evening  Post. 

"  Of  unusual  value  to  every  student  of  American  history." — Nat.  Baptist. 
"One  of  the  best  books  of  the  year." — Public  Opinion. 

"  His  biography  will  be  one  of  the  naval  classics." — Army  and  Navy 
foil  rnal. 

"  Has  done  his  work  right  well." — Chicago  Evening J ournal . 
"  Highly  entertaining  and  instructive." — Universalist  Quarterly. 

THADDEUS    STEVENS,    AMERICAN    STATESMAN,    AND 
FOUNDER  OF  THE  REPUBLICAN  PARTY.    A  Memoir  by 
E.  B.  CALLENDAR.     With  portrait.     Cr.  8vo.     Cloth,  gilt  top.     $1.50. 
A  biography  of  one  of  the  most  interesting  characters  in  the  whole  range  of 
American  politics,  whose  work  must  be  understood  thoroughly  to  gain  accurate 
knowledge  of  the  secret  forces  operating  during  his  times,  1792  to  1869. 

JOHN  HOWARD  PAYNE.  A  Biography  of  the  author  of  "Home, 
Sweet  Home,"  by  CHAS.  H.  BRAINARD.  With  four  portraits  from  minia- 
tures and  other  sources,  fac-simile  of  manuscript,  "  Home,  Sweet  Home," 
and  photographic  illustrations  of  his  tomb  at  Washington,  etc.,  etc.  8vo. 
Cloth  elegant,  gilt  top,  in  box.  $3.00. 

Apart  from  the  remembrance  and  regard  in  which  the  author  of  "  Home, 
Sweet  Home  "  is  held  by  the  world,  this  biography  will  possess  additional  inte- 
rest from  the  fact  that  it  is  written  under  the  direct  editorshin  of  W.  W.  Cor- 
coran, the  late  eminent  philanthropist,  who  provided  the  funds  for  the  removal 
of  the  poet's  body  from  Africa  to  Washington. 

THE  LIFE  OF  ADMIRAL  SIR   ISAAC  COFFIN,   BARONET; 

HIS  ENGLISH  AND  AMERICAN  ANCESTORS.    By  THOMAS 

C.  AMORY.     With  portrait.     Large  8vo.    $1.25. 

The  name  of  Coffin  is  so  widely  spread  over  our  continent,  so  many  thous- 
ands of  men  and  women  of  other  patronymics  take  pride  in  their  descent  from 
Tristram,  its  first  American  patriarch,  that  what  concerns  them  all,  any  consid- 
erable branch  or  distinguished  individual  of  the  race,  seems  rather  history  than 
biography. 

THE     AUTOBIOGRAPHY     OF     COMMODORE    CHARLES 

MORRIS.      With    heliotype  portrait  after  Ary   Scheffer.       i  vol.  8vo. 
in  pages.    $1.00. 

A  valuable  addition  to  the  literature  of  American  history ;  a  biography  of 
one  who,  in  the  words  of  Admiral  Farragut,  was  "America's  grandest  seaman." 

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HOW  TO  WRITE  THE  HISTORY  OF  A  FAMILY.    By  w.  P. 

W.    PHILLIMORE,  M.  A.,  B.  C.  L.     i  vol.     Cr.  8vo.     Tastefully  printed  in 
antiqus  style,  Jiandsomely  bound.    $2.00. 

Unassuming,  practical,  essentially  useful,  Mr.  Phillimore's  book  should  be  in 
the  hands  of  every  one  who  aspires  to  search  for  his  ancestors  and  to  learn  his 
family  history. — Athen&um. 

This  is  the  best  compendious  genealogist's  guide  that  has  yet  been  published, 
and  Mr.  Phillimore  deserves  the  thanks  and  appreciation  of  all  lovers  of  family 
history.  — Reliquary. 

Notice.  — Large  Paper  Edition.  A  few  copies,  an  hand-made  paper,  wide  mar- 
gins, bound  in  half  morocco,  may  be  obtained,  price  $6.50  net. 

THE  KINSHIP  OF  MEN:  An  Argument  from  Pedigrees ;  or,  Genealogy 
Viewed  as  a  Science.  By  HENRY  KENDALL.  Cr.  8vo.  Cloth,  $2.00. 

The  old  pedigree-hunting  was  a  sign  of  pride  and  pretension  ;  the  modern  is 
simply  dictated  by  the  desire  to  know  whatever  can  be  known.  The  one 
advanced  itself  by  the  methods  of  immoral  advocacy ;  the  other  proceeds  by 
those  of  scientific  research.  —  Spectator  (London). 

RECORDS  AND  RECORD  SEARCHING.    A  Guide  to  the  Genealo- 
gist and  Topographer.     By  WALTER  RYE.     8vo,  cloth.     Price  $2.50. 
This  book  places  in  the  hands  of  the  Antiquary  and  Genealogist,  and  others 
interested  in  kindred  studies,  a  comprehensive  guide  to  the  enormous  mass  of 
material  which  is  available  in  his  researches,  showing  what  it  consists  of,  and 
where  it  can  be  found. 

ANCESTRAL  TABLETS.  A  Collections  of  Diagrams  for  Pedigrees,  so 
arranged  that  Eight  Generations  of  the  Ancestors  of  any  Person  may  be 
recorded  in  a  connected  and  simple  form.  By  WILLIAM  H.  WHITMORE, 
A.M.  SEVENTH  EDITION.  On  heavy  parchment  paper,  large  4(0, 
tastefully  and  strongly  bound,  Roxburgh  style.  Price  $2.00. 

"  No  one  with  the  least  bent  for  genealogical  research  ever  examined  this  in- 
geniously compact  substitute  for  the  '  family  tree '  without  longing  to  own  it. 
It  provides  for  the  recording  of  eight  lineal  generations,  and  is  a  perpetual 
incentive  to  the  pursuit  of  one's  ancestry."  —  Nation. 

THE  ELEMENTS  OF  HERALDRY.  A  practical  manual,  showing 
what  heraldry  is,  where  it  comes  from,  and  to  what  extent  it  is  applicable  to 
American  usage ;  to  which  is  added  a  Glossary  in  English,  French  and 
Latin  of  the  forms  employed.  Profusely  Illustrated.  By  W.  H. 
WHITMORE,  author  of  "  Ancestral  Tablets,"  etc.  \Jttpress. 

Cvpplf-s  and  Hurd,      "  *«&»•*,  BOSTON. 

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PROF.  CLARK  MUR RAY'S   WORKS. 

SOLOMON  MAIMON:  An  Autobiography.  Translated  from  the  Ger- 
man, with  Additions  and  Notes,  by  Prof.  J.  CLARK  MURRAY,  i  vol. 
Cr.  8vo.  Cloth.  307  pp.  $2.00. 

A  life  which  forms  one  of  the  most  extraordinary  .biographies  in  the  history 
of  literature. 

The  London  Spectator  says:  "Dr.  Clark  Murray  has  had  the  rare  good 
fortune  of  first  presenting  this  singularly  vivid  book  in  an  English  translation 
as  pure  and  lively  as  if  it  were  an  original,  and  an  original  by  a  classic 
English  writer. 

George  Eliot,  in  "Daniel  Deronda,"  mentions  it  as  "  that  wonderful  bit  of 
autobiography  —  the  life  of  the  Polish  Jew,  Solomon  Maimon  ";  and  Milman, 
in  his  "  History  of  the  Jews,"  refers  to  it  as  a  curious  and  rare  book. 

HANDBOOK     OF    PSYCHOLOGY.      By  Prof.  J.  CLARK  MURRAY, 
LL  D.,   Professor   of   Mental   and    Moral    Philosophy,    M'Gill    College, 
Montreal.     Cr.  Svo.     sd  edition,  enlarged  and  improved.     $1-75. 
Clearly  and  simply  written,  with  illustrations  so  well  chosen  that  the  dullest 

student  can  scarcely  fail  to  take  an  interest  in  the  subject. 

ADOPTED  FOR  USE  IN  COLLEGES  IN  SCOTLAND,  ENGLAND, 
CANADA,  AND  THE   UNITED  STATES. 

Prof.  Afnrray's  good  fortune  in.  bringing  to  light  the  "  KTaimon  Memoirs," 
'.ogether  with  the  increasing  popularity  of  his  "Handbook  of  Psychology"  ha\ 
-tttracted  the  attention  of  the  intellectual  world,  giving  him  a  position 
with  the  leaders  of  thought  of  the  present  age.  His  writings  are  at  once 
original  and  suggestive. 

AALESUNb  TO   TETUAN.     By   CHAS.    R.   CORNING.     A  Volume  of 

Travel,    izmo.    400  pp.    Cloth.    $2.00. 

TABLE  OF  CONTENTS.  —  Portsmouth  —  Isle  of  Wight  —  Channel  Islands- — 
Normandy  —  Nice  —  Monte  Carlo — Genoa  —  Naples  and  its  Environments  — 
Rome  —  Verona  —  Venice  —  Norway  —  Sweden  —  St.  Petersburg —  Moscow  — 
JVarsaw  —  Berlin  —  Up  the  Rhine — Barcelona  —  Valencia  —  Seville  —  Cadiz 
—  Morocco  —  Gibraltar — Granada — Madrid  and  the  Royal  Wedding — Bull 
Fights —  Escurial  —  Biarritz  —  Bordeaux  —  Paris. 

TAPPY'S  CHICKS:  °r,  Links  Between  Nature  and  Human  Nature. 
By  MRS.  GEORGE  CUPPLES.  Illustrated.  i6mo.  Cloth.  $1.25. 

The  tenderness  and  humor  of  this  volume  are  simply  exquisite.  —  E.  P. 
W hippie. 

The  title  is  altogether  too  insignificant  for  so  delightful  and  valuable  a  work 
^•Spectator  (London). 

It  is  not  merely  a  work  of  talent,  but  has  repeated  strokes  of  undeniable 
genius.  —  George  Macdonald.  [/«  preparation. 

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A  NEW  BOOK  BY  W.  H.  H.  MURRAY. 

DAYLIGHT  LAND.  The  experiences,  incidents,  and  adventures,  humorous 
and  otherwise,  which  befell  Judge  John  Doe,  Tourist,  of  San  Francisco ; 
Mr  Cephas  Pepperell,  Capitalist,  of  Boston ;  Colonel  Goffe,  the  Man 
from  New  Hampshire,  and  divers  others,  in  their  Parlor-Car  Excursion  pver 
Prairie  and  Mountain  ;  as  recorded  and  set  forth  by  W.  H.  H.  MURRAY. 
Superbly  illustrated  with  150  cuts  in  various  colors  by  the  best  artists. 

CONTENTS  :  —  Introduction  —  The  Meeting  —  A  Breakfast  —  A  Very  Hopeful 
Man  —  The  Big  Nepigon  Trout  —  The  Man  in  the  Velveteen  Jacket  —  The 
Capitalist  —  Camp  at  Rush  Lake — Big  Game — A  Strange  Midnight  Ride 
—  Banff —  Sunday  among  the  Mountains  —  Nameless  Mountains  —  The  Great 
Glacier  — The  Hermit  of  Frazer  Canon  —  Fish  and  Fishing  in  British  Colum- 
bia —  Vancouver  City  —  Parting  at  Victoria. 

8vo.   350  pages.     Unique  paper  covers,  $2.50;  half  leather  binding,  $3.50. 

Mr.  Murray  has  chosen  the  north-western  side  of  the  continent  for  the  scene 
of  this  book  ;  a  region  of  country  which  is  little  known  by  the  average  reader, 
but  which  in  its  scenery,  its  game,  and  its  vast  material  and  undeveloped 
resources,  supplies  the  author  with  a  subject  which  has  not  been  trenched  upon 
even  by  the  magazines,  and  which  he  has  treated  in  that  lively  and  spirited 
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when  developed,  illustrated  and  embellished  with  such  lavishness  and  artistic 
elegance  as  has  never  before  been  attempted  in  any  similar  work  in  this  coun- 
try  

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Containing  John  Norton's  Christmas  —  Henry  Herbert's  Thanksgiving  —  A 
Strange  Visitor — Lost  in  the  Woods  —  A  Jolly  Camp — Was  it  Suicide?  — 
The  Gambler's  Death  — The  Old  Beggar's  Dog  — The  Ball  — Who  was  he  ? 

Short  stories  in  Mr.  Murray's  best  vein — humorous;  pathetic;  full  of  the 
spirit  of  the  woods. 

HOW  DEACON  TUBMAN  AND  PARSON  WHITNEY  KEPT 
NEW  YEARS,  and  other  Stories.  By  W.  H.  H.  MURRAY.  i6mo. 
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A    HEART    REGAINED.     By    CARMEN  SYLVA   (Queen    of    Roumania) 

Translated  by  MARY  A.  MITCHELL.     Fcap.  8vo.     Cloth.    $1.00. 
A  charming  story  by  this  talented  authoress,  told  in  her  vivid,  picturesqus 
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RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON,  PHILOSOPHER  AND  SEER.    An  Estimate 
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to  Subscribers,    $3.00. 

A  book  about  Emerson,  written  by  the  one  man  who  stood  nearest  to  him  of 
all  men.  It  is  an  original  and  vital  contribution  to  Emersoma  ;  like  a  portrait 
of  one  of  the  old  masters  painted  by  his  own  brush.  [/«  Press. 

HERMAN  GRIMM'S  WORKS. 

THE  LIFE  OF  RAPHAEL  as  shown  in  his  principal  works.  From  the 
German  of  HERMAN  GRIMM,  r.uthor  of  "The  Life  of  Michael  Angelo," 
etc.  With  frontispiece,  after  Braun,  of  the  recently  discovered  portrait, 
outlined  by  Raphael  in  chalk.  Cr.  8vo.  Cloth.  $2.00. 

ESSAYS  ON  LITERATURE.  From  the  German  of  HERMAN  GKIMM, 
uniform  with  "The  Life  of  Raphael."  New  and  enlarged  edition,  care- 
fully corrected.  Cr.  8vo.  Cloth.  $2.00. 

BY  JAMES  H.  STARK. 

ANTIQUE  VIEWS  OF  YE  TOWNE  OF  BOSTON.  By  JAMES  H. 
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rian of  the  Massachusetts  Historical  Society;  JOHN  WARD  DEAN,  Libra- 
rian of  the  New  England  Historic  Genealogical  Society;  and  Judge 
MEI.LEN  CHAMBERLAIN,  of  the  Public  Library.  Ait  extensive  and  exhaust- 
ive work  in  3^8  pages.  Large  quarto.  Illustrated  with  nearly  soo  full 
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With  Maps,  Engravings  and  16  photo-prints,  i  vol.  i2mo,  cloth, 

157  pp.       $2.00. 

PAUL  REVERE:  Historical  and  Legendary.  By  ELBRIDGE  H.  Goss. 
With  reproductions  of  many  of  Revere's  engravings,  etc.  [lit  press. 

A  DIRECTORY  OF  THE  CHARITABLE  AND  BENEFICENT 
ORGANIZATIONS  OF  BOSTON,  ETC.  Prepared  for  the  Assc. 
ciated  Charities,  i  vol.,  196  pp.  161110.  Cloth,  #1.00. 

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NEW  TO  AMERICAN  READERS. 

.THE  LAST  VON  RECKENBURG.  By  LOUISBVON  FRANCOIS.  Trans- 
lated from  the  third  German  edition.  370  pages.  Cr.  8vo.  Cloth,  gilt. 
|i-5o. 

The  popularity  of  this  book  amorg  the  reading  public  of  Europe,  and  the 
interest  it  has  excited  in  critical  circles,  led  to  the  present  translation  into 
English.  Gustave  Freytag,  one  of  the  greatest  of  German  novelists,  says  of 
it  :  "  Clear,  terse,  with  not  a  word  too  much,  and  rich  in  powerful  expres- 
sions, it  depicts  everything  in  short  sentences,  obedient  to  every  mood,  every 
change  of  color.  Readers  will  always  close  this  volume  with  a  consciousness 
that  they  have  received  a  rare  gift." 

MM.  Erckmann-Chatrian  have  depicted  the  feverish  excitement  of  France 
during  the  height  of  Napoleon's  meteor-like  blaze  :  this  equally  powerful  ro- 
mance shows  the  reaction  in  Germany  immediately  after  his  downfall,  when 
the  pulse  of  Europe  was  striving  to  regain  its  normal  beat. 

THE    MONK'S   WEDDING.    A   novel.     By   C.    F.    MEYER.     Cr.    8vo 

unique  binding,  gilt  top.     $1.25. 

This  is  an  Italian  story,  written  by  a  German,  and  translated  by  an  American, 
and  purports  to  be  narrated  by  the  poet  Dante  at  the  hospitable  hearth  of  his 
pa'ron,  Can  Grande.  He  evolved  it  from  an  inscription  on  a  gravestone  : 
"Hie  jacet  monachus  Astorre  cum  uxore  Antiope.  Sepeliebat  Azzolinus " 
(Here  sleeps  the  monk  Astorre  with  his  wife  Antiope.  Ezzelin  gave  them 
burial).  Those  who  have  any  acquaintance  with  the  unscrupulous  machina- 
tions of  the  Italian,  and  particularly  of  the  Italian  ecclesiastic,  will  have  little 
difficulty  in  conjuring  up  what  a  grim,  lurid  tale  of  secret  crime  and  suffering  a 
"  Monk's  Wedding  "  is  sure  to  be.  It  is  of  sustained  and  absorbing  interest,  full 
of  delicate  touches  and  flashes  of  passion,  a  tragedy  which  cannot  fail  to  leave 
an  impression  of  power  upon  the  mind. 

WORKS  BY  WILLIAM  H.  RIDEING. 

THACKERAY'S  LONDON:  HIS  HAUNTS  AND  THE 
SCENES  OF  HIS  NOVELS.  With  two  original  Portraits  (etched 
and  engraved) ;  a  fac-simile  of  a  page  of  the  original  manuscript  of  "The 
Newcomes  ;  "  together  with  several  exquisitely  engraved  woodcuts,  i  vol, 
square  12010.  Cloth,  gilt  top,  in  box.  *i.oo.  fourth  Edition. 

LITTLE  UPSTART,  A.     A  Novel.     Third  edition.  i6mo.  Cloth.   $1.25. 

"  As  a  study  of  literary  and  would-be  literary  life  it  is  positively  brilliant- 
Many  well-known  figures  are  drawn  with  a  few  sweeping  touches.  Tie  book, 
as  a  story,  is  interesting  enough  for  the  most  experienced  taste,  and,  as  a  satire, 
it  is  manly  and  healthy."  — John  Boyle  O'Reilly . 

"  Notably  free  from  the  least  sensationalism  or  unnaturalness.  .  .  Flashes  of 
sterling  wit,  with  touches  of  exquisite  pathos,  and  with  a  quiet  mastery  of  style 
which  I  have  rarely  seen  surpassed  in  American  fiction  and  seldom  equalled. 
The  incidental  bits  of  philosophy,  observation,  and  keen  worldly  knowledge 
have  few  parallels  in  our  literature."  —  Edgar  Fawcett. 

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TRAVESTIES,  PARODIES,  AND  JEUX  D'ESPRIT. 

THE  IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS  OF  HIS  EXCELLENCV 
AND  DAN.     By  C.  W.  TAYLOR.     With  40  full-page  silhouette  illustra  . 
tions  by  F.  H.  BLAIR.     90  pp.    i6mo      Paper.     25  cents. 

"  It  is  fun  for  the  masses,  wholly  irrespective  of  political  parties, —  such  good 
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most  humorous  skit  ever  produced  " 

THE  LITTLE  TIN-GODS-ON-WHEELS  ;    OR,  SOCIETY  IN 

OUR  MODERN  ATHENS-  A  Trilogy,  after  the  manner  of  the 
Greek.  By  ROBERT  GRANT.  Illustrated  by  F.  G  ATTWOOD.  Tenth  edi- 
tion. Pamphlet.  Small  410.  50  cents. 

Divided  into  Three  Parts:  The  Wall  Flowers;  the  Little  Tin-Gods-on- 
Wheels ;  The  Chaperons.  A  broad  burlesque  of  Boston  society  scenes. 

ROLLO'S  JOURNEY  TO  CAMBRIDGE.  A  Tale  of  the  Adventures 
of  the  Historic  Holiday  Family  at  Harvard  under  the  New  Regime.  WitV 
twenty-six  illustrations,  full-page  frontispiece,  and  an  illuminated  cover  ol 
striking  gorgeousness.  By  FRANCIS  G.  ATTWOOD.  i  vol.  imperial  8vo 
Limp.  London  toy-book  style.  Third  and  enlarged  edition.  75  cents. 

"All  will  certainly  relish  the  delicious  satire  in  both  text  and  illustrations." — 
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EVERY  MAN  HIS  OWN  POET;  OR,  THE  INSPIRED 
SINGER'S  RECIPE  BOOK.  By  W.  H.  MALLOCK, author  of  "  New 
Republic,"  etc.  Eleventh  Edition.  i6mo.  25  cents. 

A  most  enjoyable  piece  of  satire,  witty,  clever,  and  refined.  In  society  and 
literary  circles  its  success,  both  here  and  abroad,  has  been  immense. 

TWO  COMEDIES:  AN  ILL  WIND;  AN  ABJECT  APOL- 
OGY.  By  F.  DONALDSON,  JR.  Fcap.  8vo.  Paper,  elegant.  50  cents. 

These  comedies  belong  to  the  same  class  of  literature  as  do  the  lightest  of 
Austin  Dobson's  lyrics  and  Andrew  Lang's  least  serious  essays,  and  their  form 
is  admirably  suited  to  the  depicting  of  the  foibles  and  rather  weak  passions  of 
that  indefinite  caste,  American  society.  They  are  evidently  modelled  on  the 
French  vaudeville,  and  their  characters  are  clever  people,  who  say  bright  things. 
Why  should  we  not  choose  the  people  we  describe  from  the  clever  minority, 
instead  of  making  them,  as  is  sometimes  done,  unnecessarily  dull,  although 
perhaps  more  true  to  nature  at  large  ?  Mr.  Donaldson  has  done  so,  and  much 
of  the  dialogue  in  these  comedies  is  clever  as  well  as  amusing. 

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STRAY  LEAVES  FROM  NEWPORT.  By  MRS.  WM.  LAMONT 
WHEELER.  Exquisitely  printed  and  most  beautifully  bound  in  tapestry, 
white  and  gold.  Gilt  top.  Uncut  edges.  i2mo.  $1.50. 

Two  editions  of  these  charming  prose  idyls  were  exhausted  within  two  weeks 
of  publication.  Third  edition  now  preparing. 

The  author  is  familiar  with  every  detail  of  the  social  life  of  Newport,  in 
which  she  has  long  been  a  prominent  figure ,  and  the  types  of  character  she 
presents  will  be  readily  recognized  as  direct  copies  front  nature.  She  is  inti- 
mately acquainted  with  the  scenes  she  describes,  and  the  literary  quality  of  her 
book  is  of  a  character  that  will  recommend  it  to  readers  of  cultivated  tastes. — 
Gazette. 

I O  N  A  :  A  Lay  of  Ancient  Greece.  By  PAYNE  ERSKINE.  Cr.  8vo.  Cloth. 
Gilt  top.  $1.75. 

Musical,  and  full  of  classic  beauty,  recalling  in  many  passages  the  delicate 
and  subtle  charm  of  Keats. 

WHAT  SHALL  MAKE  US  WHOLE?  or,  Thoughts  in  the  direction 
of  Man's  Spiritual  and  Physical  Integrity.  By  HELEN  BIGELOW  MERRI- 
MAN.  Third  Edition,  i6mo,  unique  boards.  75  cents. 

An  endeavor  to  present  in  a  popular  way  the  philosophy  and  practice  of 
mental  healing. 

The  author  does  not  claim  for  her  essay  either  completeness  or  permanent 
value,  but  hopes  "to  fix  a  few  points  and  establish  a  few  relative  values,  in  an- 
ticipation of  the  time  when  human  research  and  experience  shall  complete  the 
pictures." 

She  holds  that  the  human  mind  can  achieve  nothing  that  is  so  good  except 
when  it  becomes  the  channel  of  the  infinite  spirit  of  God,  and  that  so-called 
mind  cures  are  not  brought  about  wholly  by  the  power  of  the  mind  over  the 
body,  or  by  the  influence  of  one  mind  over  another. 

Religious  enthusiasm  and  scientific  medicine  abound  in  cases  of  extraordi- 
nary cures  of  diseases  effected  by  what,  for  the  sake  of  convenience,  is  gener- 
ally called  "  faith." 

It  will  not  do,  says  the  British  Medical  Journal,  for  pathologists  and  psy- 
chologists to  treat  these  "  modern  miracles  "  so  cavalierly. 

In  them  are  exhibited,  in  a  more  or  less  legitimate  manner,  the  results  of  the 
action  of  the  mind  upon  the  bodily  functions  and  particles. 

Hysteria  is  curable  by  these  phenomena,  since  hysteria,  after  all,  is  only  an 
unhealthy  mastery  of  the  body  over  the  mind,  and  is  cured  by  this  or  any  other 
stimulus  to  the  imagination.  "Therefore,"  says  the  editor  of  the  above  jour- 
nal, "  there  is  no  reason  to  doubt  that  faith-healing,  so  called,  may  have 
more  positive  results  than  we  have  been  accustomed  to  allow." 

TYPICAL  NEW  ENGLAND  ELMS  AND  OTHER  TREES. 
Reproduced  by  Photogravure  from  photographs  by  HENRY  BROOKS,  with  an 
Introduction,  and  with  Notes  by  L.  L.  Dame.  410.  [In press. 

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HARVARD  UNIVERSITY. 

HARVARD,  THE  FIRST  AMERICAN  UNIVERSITY  :  ITS  HIS- 
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with  rare  and  curious  engravings.  Large  Paper,  410,  $5.00;  i6mo, 
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Printed  in  the  antique  style  ;  a  very  careful  and  beautiful  piece  of  book- 
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HARVARD  UNIVERSITY  IN  THE  WAR    OF    1861-1865.    A 

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edges.  $4.00. 

HOMES  OF  OUR  FOREFATHERS.  A  selection  of  views  of  the 
most  interesting  Historical  Buildings  now  remaining  in  New  England, 
and  consisting  of  four  volumes,  each  independent  of  the  others.  About 
three  hundred  illustrations  in  the  four  volumes  from  original  drawings 
taken  on  the  spot  by  E.  Whitefield. 
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and  the  other  will  soon  be  completed. 
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Connecticut    and    Rhode    Island;    Vol.    IV.,   Maine,    New   Hampshire,   and 

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